Stars and Bloodied Stripes
by Curiositatis
Summary: As the war on Abyssals dwindled to a standstill and all the world licked its wounds, the United States still doggedly held their grip on the Pacific. But with the convening of the world's navies into one location the USN must take to the seas once more to help restore the balance of power as it once was. Part of the Operation Eclipse series.
1. Something Unexpected

On another base, far out on the Pacific, the harsh tropical sun beat down on the beaches of Pearl Harbour, baking the various loungers who dared to brave the fierce rays. The heat baked the tarmac on the roads, and every window was open – for such a hot day, only the gentlest of breezes shifted through the base.

A few miles away from the main base the American Admiral kept his island retreat – a handsome two-storey white-washed villa that stood among the broad palms of the island. Yells of delight and raucous laughter mingles with the wash of waves as a garden party played itself out on the beachfront of the Admiral's house.

The Admiral himself lay in a deckchair on the sand with a glass of chilled tropical punch in his hand. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and pressed shorts – a classic pair of sunglasses covered his eyes and his peaked officer's cap lay askew on top of his mop of tousled black hair. In his relaxed pose one could have said that he was living the American Dream – and if you were to ask him he would most likely agree.

He gazed out unconcernedly at the little group of girls that played on the sand, completely at ease. There was Jouett, Massey and Charrette, all destroyers, who were building little sand castles that surrounded them; Augusta, Helena (both charming and scandalous cruisers) and the old battleship Washington stood around the barbeque, happily gossiping away while the sausages slowly charred; San Jacinto and Yorktown, both vivacious carriers, paddled contentedly in the warm water with the dolphin-like Cachalot, who swam rings around the cumbersome carriers amid laughter and teasing.

"Sorry we're late, sir," the Admiral turned slightly in his chair, looking up at the newcomers. The battleship Pennsylvania stood there with a gaggle of little destroyers (mostly Gearings, the Admiral observed), who hung about behind her. The Admiral sensed that like Pennsylvania they too were awed to see the Admiral so relaxed. They were all wearing their swimsuits: Pennsylvania had her white bikini and the little destroyers wore one-pieces of varying colours, and some had floats on their hips and elbows.

"There's no need to call me 'sir', I'm not on duty, am I?"

"Guess not, si- I mean, Admiral."

"Good. Why don't you get yourself over to Washington? I'm sure she's finished cooking by now."

Pennsylvania walked over to the barbeque, while the destroyers ran helter-skelter for the water – in their rush they trampled over the ring of sand-forts the three already there built. Groans filled the air, but were soon replaced by mad dashes for the water as the builders sought revenge. Soon enough, a water fight broke out, with all the little destroyers splashing furiously.

The Admiral watched over this little scene with amusement and felt more at ease than ever. But even as he took another leisurely sip of his punch he heard another little movement behind him.

He looked around again, expecting another late arrival; instead he found the cruiser Brooklyn standing there, in her working uniform of mottled grey and blue and skirt of the same colour.

"Brooklyn? Are you here for the party as well?" the Admiral asked with a smile.

"No, sir." The Admiral winced. "I've just come here to deliver this message from HQ-"

"Can't it wait? I'm having a party here, you know-"

"They say it's urgent, sir."

"Urgent or not, just leave it in the house! I won't have any interruptions-"

The Admiral was interrupted by the letter falling neatly onto his lap – with a great sigh he took it up, straightened his cap, and tore it open.

"Communiqué from headquarters… wish to inform you of… wait… what?!"

"Is something the matter, sir?" Brooklyn enquired.

"What's the meaning of this? What do they mean, immediate commencement of new operations-"

The Admiral stopped himself hastily, but too late – Washington, the closest to him, was already staring at him with reproach – the others at the barbeque also turned to look at him with inquiring, almost patronizing expressions.

With a quick smile he waved at them, trying desperately to maintain his cheery expression. With great reluctance he rose out of his deckchair, and Brooklyn quickly sprang to attention as he straightened his shirt and turned to leave.

"Admiral? Where are you going?" Pennsylvania asked.

The Admiral turned to face the battleship. "Oh, I've just got some supplies to clear, nothing serious, be back within an hour or so." His heart was weighing heavier by the minute as he digested the unwelcome orders – but nevertheless he gave her another little smile in an effort to reassure her.

The Admiral walked with Brooklyn back towards the house. They got into the jeep waiting in the driveway, and together they drove back to the main compound.

"Did you hear that?" Pennsylvania asked Washington, as the crunch of tyres on gravel faded away. "New operations? In summer?"

"Yes, I heard," Washington replied, idly turning the sausages over. "Best not to think too much of it, though."

"Why?"

Washington did not answer.

* * *

"Are you sure of what you're saying? Are absolutely sure they're there?"

The Admiral paced the map table, throwing occasional glances at the marking blocks that were littered all over the table. There were many blocks with a red flag attached – they represented known Abyssal fleet positions. There were also blocks with blue flags – representing the USN's own fleets in the area.

But what was so strange about today was that a third colour was represented on the big map representing the entire Pacific region. It was the colour of green – the symbol of foreign, but not Abyssal ships. It was oddly jarring, yet comforting to see the presence of a foreign fleet in the area – but to see four blocks of green on the table was a dream, a legend that even veterans whispered of.

"Yes, latest patrol reports indicate the presence of four, I say again, four green fleets approaching the Pacific theatre of operations. This includes aerial reconnaissance taken from outpost bases in the Colombo, Guam, Samoa, and the Aleutians, as well as from escort carriers in the Eastern Indian Ocean and off Sumatra-"

The Admiral raised a hand to silence Alaska, who was reading off the operations clipboard. "Do we know the nationality of these ships?"

"Exact identification of ships composing said fleets is not possible at the moment, but headquarters analysts have been forwarded the recon photographs. We're still waiting on the results, sir."

The Admiral picked up a paddle from a nearby rack. "What are the compositions of our fleets closest to the aforementioned islands?"

This time Guam, who was sitting opposite to Alaska, spoke up. She wore a service uniform like the rest – mottled grey and blue cotton shirt and knee-hem skirt.

"Fleet Pacific North is stationed at Midway, comprising of two carriers, three escort carriers, one battleship, three cruisers and sixteen destroyers. Fleet Pacific South is stationed just east of the Samoan islands – three cruisers, five destroyers, accompanied by Submarine Task Force Six. We have no immediate resources near Colombo. The Philippines Fleet is standing by in the Surigao Strait, with four battleships, two carriers, five cruisers and fourteen destroyers."

The paddle came down onto the table, and in a few quick motions three blue-flagged blocks were shifted by the Admiral. There was a look of intense concentration on his face as he scrutinized the altered board, like a chess player contemplating the next move.

"What's Fleet Pacific Centre status?" he asked.

"Six battleships, four carriers, fifteen cruisers and over twenty destroyers, sir," Guam answered. "All based here in Hawaii. Morale is generally high."

The Admiral raised his paddle, and then put it back on the rack. His manner was brisk now, as he looked back at the two cruisers and the faces of the Operations volunteers as they awaited his orders.

"Alaska," he said, and she instantly stiffened in attention. "I want all non-essential ships gathered in the mess hall. I don't know what's going on with these foreigners, but it's important that we inform all personnel as soon as possible." The blonde cruiser stood up, saluted, and quickly left the room.

The Admiral turned to Guam now, who stared at him intently. "Guam, open all channels to HQ, and get me Cleveland from Communications. We've got to try and get a link open to the Japs in Iwo Jima."

"Iwo Jima, sir?" Guam queried.

"Yes. I know, it's a long shot, but they've got to know, if they haven't already seen it. My bets are that they haven't."

"Very good, sir." Guam stood, and followed her sister out of the room.

"Everyone else, we're on double take!" the Admiral barked. There was an instant flurry of movement as the board plotters began their work. Radios burst into life all around them as their operators fiddled their work.

The Admiral watched as the well-oiled system came back to life. As little destroyers ran the lengths of the room as message runners, he felt an old fire burn within himself. It was a fire that he had once wished to be rid of – the fires of war. He put his cap back on and headed for the mess.

* * *

There was a distinctive buzz in the mess hall as the assembled ship-girls chatted with each other, some excited, some apprehensive as to what occurrence could bring them together in such a fashion. The battleships and carriers sat in the back, while the cruisers and destroyers fidgeted and murmured on the floor.

"I reckon it's going to be a new exercise," muttered Chauncey to her neighbour.

"You think so? I don't think it'd be that," answered Leutze.

"What about the Japs? Heard they're up to something in the west," said Montpelier.

"Like what? Fishing? Would sure like to join 'em if they were," Tucson shot back.

"Hey, what's wrong with Spam? Not salty enough for you?" jibed Montpelier. The other two destroyers giggled.

"Naw, I just think-"

"Shh-h! The Admiral's just come in!" Atlanta admonished.

The Admiral walked up to the podium and looked at the expectant faces of the ships seated before him. Most were wearing their patterned working uniforms – some of the battleships, under special mandate, wore their own outfits (some of them real eye-catchers).

"Everyone, first of all I'm sorry for bringing you all here on such short notice. But with the current situation I think it's best if you all know exactly what's going on."

"The Operations room has been informed of the presence of four; I say again, four green fleets in our theatre of operations." There was an instant outbreak of murmuring as the girls digested this information.

"This is a most mysterious turn of events, but it's something needs further investigation. Therefore starting from today this entire base is under double take-" The murmurs grew louder, the excitement from the girls rising "and I trust that each of you will perform your duties with the utmost efficiency."

"There will be postings and more information put up on the noticeboards tomorrow. I want all of you prepare for an encounter with one of these fleets. I do not know what their intentions are this present time, but I am certain that from now on our guard must never waver." The Admiral paused for breath. "Girls, I thank you for your time."

All the girls stood and came to attention as the Admiral, with Cleveland, filed out of the room. As soon as the swing doors stilled the tension broke – anxious chatter filled the room as the girls debated with each other over the nature of the situation.

"I knew this was coming!" Maryland crowed.

"Knew what?" some destroyers chorused.

"Maryland, you knew nothing of this!" protested Colorado.

"Did so! Now we'll get to see some real action!"

"How do you know that? Maybe they're just visiting…" Montpelier mused.

"Naw, I don't think so, they wouldn't come all the way out here just for show," New Mexico answered sedately.

The bickering and speculation carried on as opinions among the girls clashed. There was a slight chill in the night air, but it did nothing to deaden the heated debates that broke out in the bungalows and dormitories all through the night.


	2. Refit and Reproach

The sweltering Pacific sun beat down relentlessly on the baking tarmac as the assembled ship-girls sweated in its hot rays. Some itched as the mosquitoes took them for easy game, but others itched for something else altogether.

"Squadron, atten-SHUN!"

Eleven pairs of assorted footwear came together as the amassed squadron stood ready for the arrival of the Commanding Ship, the great battleship Iowa. Admired by many, feared by even the Abyssals, her daunting armour and devastating firepower was renowned. Today, she wore a light khaki uniform with sunhat and tinted glasses, and as she walked by the first rank of volunteers a little murmur of awe washed over them.

"Squadron, stand at, ease!" Iowa's voice was naturally commanding, full of hard-won authority. Eleven pairs of assorted footwear returned to their starting positions.

The squadron , Colorado, stayed at attention while Iowa walked by the front rank again, this time looking each volunteer in the eyes, searching their very souls. Suddenly, as if she had decided upon a victim, she straightened before Atlanta, who strove to keep herself still under the battleship's powerful gaze.

"Atlanta, why do you want to go on this mission?"

The light cruiser responded as enthusiastically as she could. "To take the fight to the enemy, ma'am!"

"WRONG!" Atlanta winced at that outburst, but Iowa did not seem to notice as she swept away from her, expounding her own rhetoric. "You stand here today as a volunteer of the vanguard of the finest ships the world has to offer! This is no ordinary sortie! Allow me to ask again – why are you here, Atlanta?"

Atlanta could only remain silent, lost for words. It was true – she had volunteered thinking that it would just be another normal sortie. She had never expected to come face-to-face with Iowa in the course of preparing for it.

"AS I THOUGHT!" Iowa triumphantly crowed. She turned her back on the now-trembling cruiser, shouting her own opinions at no-one in particular. Atlanta was verging on tears and the expostulating battleship seemed not to notice, berating her without even looking at her.

"Permission to speak-" Colorado piped up, but Iowa swiftly cut across her. "DENIED! And when you realize the enormity of the task you are undertaking there will be no-one to cry to! Do I make myself clear, Atlanta?"

Eyes brimming with tears, Atlanta mutely nodded. Iowa surveyed the damage done and drew back. The light cruiser could feel the lingering gaze of Iowa on her, but felt slightly comforted by the sympathetic feelings her comrades piled on her.

With a casual wave of the hand Iowa dismissed them. The girls quickly fled to the shelter of the mess veranda, where they crowded around the blubbering Atlanta. Meanwhile Iowa and Colorado stayed in the sun.

It was a while before either of them spoke. "If I may say so, ma'am, that was uncalled for," Colorado admonished.

Iowa grunted, and looked out at the deserted airfield. She thought hard for a while, and then gave her response. "It's not that it was uncalled for. The girls need to know what they're getting into to. Remember, we've all seen our fair share of losses…"

"But was that really necessary?"

"They've got to be tough for the coming months. It's no use sugar-coating it for them, we will definitely lose ships and it will be a difficult time for all of us." Iowa removed her sunhat, revealing her carefully-kept brown locks.

Colorado remained silent at this. Together they gazed out at the expanse of tarmac before them, disregarding the heat even as it beat down on their backs.

* * *

"There, there, Atlanta, it's not so bad." Montpelier patted the crying cruiser's back while the others looked on.

Atlanta sniffed as the reassuring hands and caresses of the other volunteers comforted her. "Th-thanks, everyone…"

"But ya gotta admit, that Iowa's got some style," Trenton breathed, whistling at the memory of the tough-as-nails Iowa.

"What d'you mean? She might be the most powerful, but she's got a lotta nerve bullyin' dear Atlanta…" Saratoga responded, absent-mindedly stroking Atlanta's rolled brown hair while glaring at the oblivious battleship, who continued to chat with Colorado.

"Yeah, she's got nerve, but we're all gonna need some of that for whatever HQ's cooking up for us." Trenton, herself the image of a tough-as-nails working-class girl, lounged on the wooden side of the mess hall. She wore a beaten and cuffed polka-dotted dress that conflicted in style with the rest of the other girls.

The other girls remained silent. Trenton had a point. It was unusual to see a powerful battleship commanding a combined fleet, much less so an Iowa-class, who they knew would more likely be commanding battalions of aides in the heated ops rooms of major bases.

Iowa was a tonic to them, an emblem of strength that would undoubtedly help them overcome the evil days ahead. But at the same time, while she struck fear into the cold hearts of Abyssals, she chilled the rest of the squadron with her own attitudes. Who knew where such strength without care would take them?

At last, like a clarion call that lifted the doubt from their hearts, the mess bell rang. With comforting pats on the back to Atlanta, the ten volunteers filed into the mess for lunch.

* * *

The next morning, the outfitter's hall was unusually full. The Navy armourers watched in stunned surprise as eleven, eleven girls trooped into their humble workshops. Most were content to outfit three or four a day, but eleven? Something had to be up.

Imagine their further surprise when the tall, perfect form of the beautiful Iowa walked in minutes later. Today she was dressed in her combat uniform, a grey tight-fitting sleeveless top under her light, white officer's coat positively groaning under the weight of a multitude of ribbons and awards. A mid-thigh white skirt hid full-length black stockings. Some apprentices bowed in low acquiescence, awed at the sight of the famous battleship. She in turn looked blithely ahead, completely unconcerned with her own fame.

Slowly, the process of refitting began. Atlanta watched amusedly on while Ingraham and Jouett struggled on their new harnesses on top of their crisp white shirts. The young male fitters helped them in, and began bringing the armament, attaching twin turrets and torpedo mounts with a detached air of professionalism.

Atlanta looked around to the others. In another corner Augusta was being kitted out with her improved twin eight-inchers, two on the shoulders, another two over, and one arm-mounted. The fitters worked without demur even as some, like Trenton and Montpelier, squirmed at being handled – they'd done this for countless others.

In the centre of the room Iowa was being fitted out. Pairs of burly veterans carried in her triple sixteen-inch guns, monsters in their own right, and bolted them firmly onto the waiting battleship, two over her shoulders and one atop a hull-shield on her right. The mini-Bofors and Oerlikons were added in platforms on the left hull in batteries of four or three. Iowa stood calmly in the midst of all her fitters, patiently waiting.

Saratoga and Ticonderoga sat nearby, being attended to each by a veteran armourer and two assistants. They ran over all their equipment carefully, checking for wear and hair cracks. When found they riveted new plate on top. For Saratoga her flight deck was completely re-plated and re-painted in the jagged green and brown of the tropical camouflage.

At last, a jolly-faced old hand greeted Atlanta, who had been watching everything from near the door. "You must be the light cruiser Atlanta. Please, do take a seat." He beckoned to a wooden chair in his own little forge-area. As she sat down she glanced at the gleaming tools on the workbench, a neat little array of wrenches, spanners, screwdrivers and hammers.

"We've made quite a few changes to your kit. Your radar has been upgraded and we're adding a fire-control director to your superstructure. Please, stand and hold your arms out." The old armourer spoke with a brisk, businesslike tone as he put on her the new harness. Atlanta's knees almost buckled under the new weight, but she steadied herself in time.

"We've also re-mounted the twin turrets – now you'll have four mounted on your hull-shields, all on side platforms. The other four will remain on your forearms." Atlanta struggled to bear the weight as the redesigned turrets, a cool-looking swept counterweight design, were attached onto their mounts. The old fitter hummed a little as he worked the bolts in, and then drew back. "You can sit back down now. How does it feel?"

"Heavy," was all Atlanta could manage.

The bearded armourer laughed. "Well, with your design, it's not very easy to reduce the weight. To compensate the reloading system has been improved, and the tracking rate has too. You'll have an easier time shooting flies out of the air."

Atlanta turned the turrets a little. They whirred quickly into life, and swung easily and noiselessly. The guns elevated with ease and with the director installed she could see virtual white lines in the air, outlining her shell trajectories.

The veteran fitter moved away to help with little Hawkins and Montpelier sidled over. "You look well-built," She looked Atlanta over, top to bottom, and Atlanta could see the other cruiser's four triple-sixes on her legs and shoulders. The Cleveland-class walked easily, almost as if the weight of the guns and machinery didn't matter.

"Hmmm, did they add anything to the superstructure?" Montpelier asked, examining her smokestack.

"A fire-director, he said." Atlanta nudged the dome-like apparatus near the top of the structure. "What about you? What did they change?"

"Me? Ummm… Well, I had my twins removed, so no more AA for me. These, though" She raised her shoulder, turning the triple-six-inch in its mount "they got an ammo upgrade, so I got a bit more punch in return."

Atlanta was relieved. It seemed that some of the changes affecting the others were only minor, and none of it seemed to add up to anything major. With that happy thought in mind, she followed Montpelier outside, towards the testing ranges.


	3. Dakota's Dilemma

"Attack!" With drawn pistol held high in the air, South Dakota led the last assault of the day on the scattered and beleaguered Abyssal forces still left in the 'cauldron', an expanse of sea surrounded by small islands of jagged, steep cliffs and mountains and rocky, coral reefs.

Under tremendous supporting fire from her sister, the delightful Alabama, and her own sixteen-inch triples on her shoulders and side, she charged into the fray. Protecting her flanks s were the dashing cruisers Minneapolis and Astoria, both fresh cruisers out of the reserve fleet.

The torn Abyssal ships, mostly light cruisers and destroyers, could not withstand such a renewed attack, but carried on firing at the advancing group nevertheless. But their fatigue, as Astoria noticed, meant their shells flew mostly overhead or well short. A blast from her trained triple-eights blew apart a floundering destroyer close by. With a vicious snap of its black, jagged jaws the shark-like craft keeled over and sank.

All the while South Dakota's nine powerful sixteen-inchers tore through the lightly-armoured ships before her. One well-placed broadside cut a clean swathe through two struggling He-class, while another shell caught a To-class cruiser dead-on and it disappeared under a huge welter of water. It was a slaughter, a bloody slaughter – but very little love was lost on both sides.

The Abyssals, seeing the awesome display of firepower from the four attacking ships, began to falter - then finally, some began to turn, then some began to sail away as hard as they could. But South Dakota, through a gap in the thick cordite smoke, saw the less-hardy Abyssals racing for safety. She grabbed her radio mike.

"Carrier Group! Showtime!" she sang.

Fifty kilometers away, behind the three flotillas of destroyers and the Cruiser Division that screened them, the carriers of Task Force 58.3, in perfect synchronization, shot their squadrons into the air. Gambier Bay, Independence, and Wasp lifted their long, flight-deck launchers into the air and in seconds a buzzing, droning cloud of dive-bombers and screening fighters filled the air and lifted itself away to the east, towards the real battle.

But one other carrier did not lift her deck towards the sky in an offering to the battle. She carried herself aloof, distancing herself from the other carriers. She was dressed in a grey folding cap over her cropped grey hair, a grey battledress with a grey skirt with storm-grey stockings – everything about her seemed to emphasize the colour of the ghost. It was a running rumour and joke of the girls at Luzon that she could turn invisible at will, and could strike even more ferocity than the cantankerous Fast Carrier Force commander, her sister Hornet.

Her name, of course, was Enterprise.

"Enterprise, what are you doing?" Wasp asked, as she sent the last of her planes on their way. "Battle Force is asking-"

"I know that." There was a chill in Enterprise's voice that stopped Wasp dead in her tracks. "That should be more than enough for the first wave. We're taking a big risk-" She stopped, and sniffed at the air. "Hell. Looks like I was right after all," she murmured.

"What do you mean-" Wasp was cut short as Enterprise, with one fluid motion, lifted her launcher to the air. But she faced the north, not the east. A stream of Corsairs shot out of the launcher, lifting their gull-wings high up to the scattered cloud layer.

"What on earth-" Before Gambier Bay could finish her sentence a flaming dark shape shot out of the clouds, streaking straight down into the water. It crashed into the sea, sending up a plume of black smoke, a tall exclamation mark against the blue sky,

"Abyssals above! All ships, high-angle fire, now!" Enterprise shouted, and instantly the massed group of screening ships let loose a thunderous storm of tracers and flak, shooting up at the unseen Abyssal aircraft. Enterprise's tiny Corsairs manoeuvred in and out of the cloud like sharks angling for kills while an intermittent rain of flaming, black shapes fell from the fray above.

"Gee, Big E sure is sharp today," Gambier Bay muttered. "Wonder what other tricks she's got up her sleeve?"

"Never you mind," Enterprise snapped back. Gambier Bay, surprised, looked away hurriedly. Independence looked mildly their way. Wasp gazed into the distance, unconcerned with the drama around her.

* * *

The fleeing Abyssals never had a chance.

As South Dakota advanced through the smoke systematically mopping up, the Abyssals knew the game was up. But before even the last ones who realised this could turn into the retreat, the buzzing cloud of bombers from Carrier Group shot out of the low cloud atop the steep mountains of the 'cauldron'.

Screeching dive bombers came down like a furious avalanche raining a torrent of armour-piercing bombs while buzzing torpedo bombers dipped low and caught the beleaguered enemy neatly in a two-pronged attack. Not one Abyssal ship survived the furious air strike.

Soon the 'cauldron' became a graveyard of wrecked Abyssals, the stench of otherworldly machine oil hanging in the now-calm air.

"And that just about does it for today," South Dakota commented, casting a sweeping, dismissive look over the forest of thin black plumes of smoke over the oily sea.

"Thank God!" Alabama cried, sidling up next to South Dakota. She, like her sister, wore the short-length battleship-grey sleeved dress and long black stockings. But unlike the prim and proper South Dakota, Alabama's hazelnut hair flowed freely in the breeze, and she wore many navy-blue ribbons tied to her sleeves and machinery. "I'm itching for a bath. How about you, Dakota?"

The other battleship rested her turrets, letting the servo motors cool down and the cooling barrels drop limply down. She stretched, and yawned lightly. "Guess I might turn in early tonight. It's been a long- Ow!"

South Dakota doubled over, clutching her arm – the angry weal of a shell impact showed on her forearm.

"Dakota! Are you alright? Are you alright?" Alabama rushed over, and had the wound under her scrutiny in seconds. Minneapolis and Astoria looked away, suppressing their grins – Alabama was known to be overzealous when it came to injuries.

"I'm fine, Alabama!" Dakota tried to brush her sister off, and glimpsed Astoria to the side, trying her hardest not to laugh.

The radio crackled into life on Alabama's holder. "Carrier Force to Battle Force, requesting withdrawal to safe zone." Wasp, the flagship of Carrier Force, was particularly sticky about security.

"Carrier Force, permission granted," Alabama responded steadily. Then she turned back to the wound on Dakota's arm, drawing near enough to lick it.

"Hey, hey, hey! Stop it, sister!" Dakota squirmed out of her sister's dogged grip, detaching herself from the overwhelming concern.

"Let me just clean it up for you," Alabama whispered, but to Dakota she had all the charm of a sea-slug. She backed away, tensing up, as if to bolt for her life. Abyssals or her lustful sister? She'd rather take the Abyssals.

At that moment Minneapolis burst out laughing, unable to contain it any longer. Astoria followed, and the two cruisers clutched each other for support, barely remaining upright in their laughter.

Alabama glared at them sulkily, but South Dakota smiled in relief. Their laughter might just have saved her from a particularly embarrassing scene.

* * *

Hot water streamed down from the shower head as South Dakota allowed herself to be drenched, rendering her fine golden hair sleek in the cascade. She could feel the various bruises and scorch marks be robbed of their sting and the pain washing away from her.

Raising her worn arms towards the shower head she let the water trickle down every part of her, leaving no crevice untouched by water. She was so engrossed in this task that she failed entirely to notice a brief shadow flit across the brightly-lit stall.

Neither did she notice the sly hand that slowly parted the shower curtains, until it was far too late – with a strangled scream she found herself pinned against the wall by none other than Alabama, no doubt attempting to restore their moment earlier.

"Alabama!" South Dakota yelled, but no-one answered her cry. She struggled against the tightening grip around her shoulders, but to no avail.

"Come on, dear sister, let's get you all fixed up now," Alabama cooed, inching closer under the curtain of searing water. Even though they were sisters and this might all be a bit of harmless sisterly love, Dakota thought this was way out of line.

"Stop it, sister! What if someone comes in-"

"Already taken care of." There was a coolness in her sister's sultry voice that Dakota could only take it to be the truth. They were alone, and unless she did something, she might have to submit to her sister's desires-

In a sweeping movement she swung her hand like a knife, aiming for Alabama's side. Surprised and shocked by the blow, Alabama's grip loosened and Dakota was free to push back.

Alabama, stung by the pain, stumbled and fell onto the tiled floor. "Y-you hit me," she stammered, her voice already full of hurt. Looking at the pitiful scene South Dakota was almost immediately consumed by regret – she didn't mean it, yet her sister seemed about to emotionally collapse at the very memory of the blow.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, crouching down and crawling forwards to wipe the tears forming up on Alabama's face with her hand. "I didn't mean to-"

But before South Dakota could draw any closer the sound of rapid, muffled footsteps made both of them look towards the door. Swiftly getting up and donning on a nearby towel, South Dakota made for the door. Alabama followed – the seduction of her sister would have to come later.

South Dakota opened the door by a slight gap, allowing her to look out into the corridor. Poking her head out she saw a flurry of Gearing-classes pass her by, racing for the exit. Astoria followed them, in her nightgown of red polka-dots.

"Astoria!" Dakota commanded. The running cruiser skidded into a halt and hastily saluted. "What's going on? Why are you out of bed?"

"Arrival, ma'am," Astoria answered primly.

"Who?"

"New task force, Seventh Fleet, ma'am."

"Seventh? Who's commanding it?"

" Iowa, ma'am."

The mention of the most powerful battleship in United States Navy stirred something inside Dakota. She gulped, remembering her last encounter with that great avatar of naval power. _Iowa? _she thought, a sense of dread rising within her. _What the hell is this?_

"Carry on, Astoria." With that quick dismissal the cruiser saluted, and ran to follow the destroyers.

Dakota closed the door, and turned to find Alabama sitting on the bench, waiting expectantly.

"Get changed, quickly," Dakota ordered, the old business tone coming back to her as her mind raced ahead, formulating a plan of action as quickly as she strode over to the clothes lockers.

"What's going on, sister?" Alabama asked as Dakota pulled on her underwear. She watched as Dakota slid on her skirt, white blouse and then don on her white officer's pea jacket. With practised precision she tied up her sleek golden hair back into an imposing bun, tying it together with a blue ribbon.

"There isn't much time to explain. Come out once you're done and see for yourself!" Adjusting her cap one last time she ran for the door – in another second she was gone.

"Dakota! Wait!" Alabama pleaded, but her sister was already long gone. "Dakota… I only wanted…" she murmured in disappointment. With a drawn-out sigh she rose, and turned towards her own locker.


	4. A Reunion

"Oh for chrissake, what's it now?" Hornet irritably pushed aside her blankets as she clambered out of her bed. Framed in the light of the hallway was the slim form of Astoria, and Hornet looked askance at the waiting cruiser in the semi-darkness, wishing unprintable things to be done towards she who disturbed her rest so abruptly.

"Arrival from Pearl, ma'am." Despite the barely-concealed venom in Hornet's voice, Astoria kept her composure.

"Arrival? At this time of night? Son of a…" Hornet muttered a few more unprintable things, as she staggered around her shadowy bedroom, trying to find her clothes. "Who the hell is it this time?" she growled.

"Seventh Fleet, ma'am," Astoria answered. "Iowa's leading this one, ma'am," she added.

Hornet brushed aside her tousled black hair and fixed Astoria with a cold eye. "You'd better not be kidding with me, Astoria, or else you'll find yourself on shore duty for the rest of your-"

"I assure you, ma'am, that this is not a drill."

"Goddamn it." Hornet rubbed her eyes and paused for a moment, thinking. "Alright, this is what we'll do – have Baltimore and Chicago set up some accommodation in the east wing, and tell Oklahoma to have the conference room ready in ten."

"Anything else, ma'am?"

"Not that I can think of…" The tired carrier ran a hand over her face, brushing off loose hair strands. "Dismissed."

Astoria shut the door gently and ran off. Hornet, left alone in her dark bedroom, slowly gathered up the scattered pieces of her battledress from the detritus on the floor.

Fifteen minutes later, after a quick face-plunge into a water-filled basin and a top-of-the-speed dressing, Hornet strode quickly down the main hallway of the fleet administrative building. Footfalls were muffled by the fine blue carpet but even as the carrier approached Conference Room 1, Oklahoma stepped out, greeting her with the usual snappy salute.

Oklahoma, belonging to the vintage Nevada-class, was a stiff but fair lady, with classic brown curls and a robust frame. She wore a starched, buttoned navy-blue gold-braided coat and generous knee-length skirt of the same colour – an avatar of another era, nevertheless standing tall amongst the modern battleships of Luzon.

"Room is ready, ma'am." Oklahoma spoke with a gentle but firm tone, something that made her sound somewhat motherly.

"Alright, Oklahoma." Hornet saluted again and got another stiff one back. "Tell Iowa and her commanders to come down for the briefing."

"Yes, ma'am." Oklahoma, not one to mince any more words, walked off. Hornet, watching the motherly battleship moving away for a moment, straightened her tie, brushed aside her hair, and pushed open the door.

* * *

"Sister, why do you reject me so much?" Alabama sighed, laying a decorous hand on South Dakota's sleeve.

Dakota, no stranger to her covetous sister's antics, shook her head. "I'm not rejecting you, there's a time and place for everything, and I don't think ambushing me in the shower is the right place." They sat next to each other in the spacious conference room, alone.

"Then what do you think is a good place? I can't wait forever, you know…"

"I don't know, just not in front of everyone else!" Dakota burst out, and once again her sister withdrew, that same hurt look springing up again.

They sat in silence and tension, punctured only when Hornet abruptly pushed open the door, startling them both. They hurried to their feet and their hands sprung up in practised salutes. Hornet, oblivious to their tense faces, waved them down.

"Right, Iowa and the rest of her cohort are coming down for the briefing. The Admiral should be awake now, I expect him down here in five minutes." Hornet paused, and looked up the conference table. "Does anyone know where Enterprise is?"

"Here." A grey-sleeved arm shot up three seats away from South Dakota, half in shadow. The grey carrier sat straight and glanced piercingly at Hornet. Her sister, immune to her chilling effects, nodded. The two other girls, however, jumped with surprise as they turned to look at Enterprise, blushing at the thought that she, even as the most emotionless and least talkative on the base, sat through their earlier argument.

"Where's Montana?" Hornet asked.

"She said she would be back in ten minutes," Enterprise answered, in a voice completely devoid of any emotion.

"How about Wasp and Baltimore?"

"Heeeere!" Wasp burst through the door with a loud bang, causing the Dakota sisters to jump again as the young carrier barrelled in. She squinted around in the dim light, as if searching for something.

"Well, Wasp, how nice of you to join us," Hornet said coldly. Wasp, recognizing her superior in the light, stiffened and threw up a jaunty salute.

"Wasp here, reporting for duty!" the carrier cried.

"Yes, yes, Wasp, please, take a seat." Hornet gestured to the occupied side of the table and Wasp bounded away to an empty chair next to Enterprise. The grey ghost did not move an inch as her livelier neighbour jumped into her chair.

"What about Baltimore-" Hornet continued, but no sooner had she said the name than the very girl walked through the ajar door. She was a black-haired girl, a little taller than the diminutive Wasp, and she wore a simple wool coat over her crumpled shirt and short maroon skirt. She held herself loosely, and sauntered into the room quietly even under Hornet's stern gaze. She walked to the empty seat between Wasp and South Dakota and settled in.

"Baltimore, I take it-" Before the carrier could even finish her sentence Baltimore responded with a very curt nod.

"Well, that just about does it for our side of things." Hornet looked at the wall clock and glanced impatiently at the door. "Now we've just got to wait for-"

Poor Hornet was interrupted once more as another person pushed open the door. Looking haggard but wide awake and alert, the Admiral walked into the room, in his dress uniform of whites and gold braid.

In an instant all the girls were on their feet, saluting, including Hornet – the Admiral waved them down back into their seats. His eyes travelled from the six seated on the right and to the empty row on the left.

"Iowa not in yet?" the Admiral asked, his voice firm despite his appearance.

"They'll be here in a few minutes, sir, Oklahoma's just leading them in now."

"Right. Then I guess we'll just wait in the meantime… Well, girls!" the Admiral boomed, looking down the long table at the six girls seated. "Hope you're not all tired from being woken up at such short notice!"

"Not at all, sir!" Wasp squeaked. The Admiral beamed at the lively young carrier, but then looked stern.

"I'm afraid the real reason why you're all here and the fact that dear Iowa is bearing down on us is very hard to explain. I really can't understand these orders without her to explain the most of it. So-"

The Admiral was cut off as there was a knock on the door. Hornet strode over to it and opened it a crack. Oklahoma stood there, and with a short whispered exchange the door swung open and Iowa, in all her splendour, walked in. Behind her the carriers Saratoga and Ticonderoga followed, along with Colorado and Atlanta bringing up the rear.

The five filed in and as they passed the Admiral saluted. The Admiral gave them one back and they sat on the opposing side of the table. There were greetings across the table as the Luzon girls recognized their brethren – Wasp waved cheerfully at her old playmate Saratoga, and Colorado and South Dakota shot each other covetous looks. Alabama, sensing their old history together, glared menacingly at Colorado.

"Welcome, Iowa. It is good to see you again in such good shape." The Admiral smiled at the five on the left. "If you wouldn't mind explaining the current situation for us…"

The demure battleship nodded very slightly, and rose from her seat. Thirteen pairs of eyes followed the slim, powerful battleship as she strode over to the front of the table. Hornet, edging away slightly to give her some prominence, looked uneasily at the Iowa, who now wore a uniform of a dark-blue mantle over a crisp white shirt and navy-blue tight skirt. This, with her brown locks and aquiline features, formed a figure that was both terrifying and beautiful to behold.

"Everyone," she began, her voice sharp and determined, with no trace of hesitation. "We have been sent here in the utmost secrecy under orders from Pacific Command to undertake this mission of unparalleled importance. I trust that each of you will keep the contents of what I'm about to tell you confidential…"

The other girls remained dead silent at this, and Iowa continued. "Since the fall of last year secret discussions have taken place, through various means, between the leaders of the world. These discussions have come to one conclusion regarding the current state of affairs on the Abyssal threat."

"I read to you now the decisive part of our President's speech to be broadcast next week, to those around the world able to receive it." Iowa took a small sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and read it out.

'"Thus we have come to one conclusion about the current threat the Abyssal forces pose to the liberty and freedoms of nations around the world. It is by unanimous decision with our friends near and far that the time has come to bring the fight to our common foe, to link arms with companions and allies once lost but now recovered, towards the common goal of eradicating the Abyssal blockade on our seas. We, the human race, will rise together as never before in our supreme and righteous might to defeat all which is dark and threatens the peace and safety of this world…"'

Iowa set aside the paper, and now fixed the entire room with a serious, cold eye. "Pacific Command has been detailed with the particulars of this mission. The Seventh Fleet has arrived here in Luzon to carry out the first stage of the American part of the plan. We are to assemble an embassy fleet to send over to the rendezvous point in Okinawa, Japan-"

"What?" The Admiral of Luzon Base burst out, and looked at Iowa with incredulity at those words. "Send a fleet over to the Japs? Nonsense!"

"This order comes from Admiral Fletcher of Pacific Command, sir," Iowa answered swiftly, matching the Admiral's furious bluster with a cold, steely edge. "We are under strict orders from the President's orders to approach the Japanese diplomatically."

"Diplomatically? Never! Not in a million years will I have my girls have anything to do with those monsters-" A flush of red colour rose on the Admiral's forehead, nature's plainest warning signals flashing before the cold battleship.

But none of the Luzon girls looked even askance at the notion of going over to Nippon. Even Baltimore, the quiet cruiser, whispered animatedly with Wasp, who was positively brimming with the idea of a meeting with the Japanese.

"Sir, if I may," South Dakota spoke now, interrupting the Admiral's furious countenance. "None of us feel any reluctance to meet with the Japanese. We are happy to fulfil the requirements of Pacific Command as necessary-"

"Silence!" The Admiral shouted, and Dakota withdrew, hurt. Both Colorado and Alabama looked daggers at the Admiral, who continued to splutter and fume with anger unabated.

Iowa, unmoved by the emotions pouring forth from so senior an officer, continued over his muttered objections. "The embassy fleet will be leaving in a week. Seventh Fleet has arrived here with volunteers from Pearl Harbour, and we will be conducting selections for the embassy during that time. Any questions?"

"Um, ma'am?" Atlanta raised her hand from the rear. "What will we be doing with the Japanese once we've arrived?"

"That has not yet been made clear to me. Pacific Command has issued this executive order as a first step towards the President's plan. What the other steps are, I have no idea. Any other questions?"

No other raised hands. Iowa went back to her seat, and Hornet took her place back. "Dismiss!" She looked at her watch and smiled thinly. "Guess it's almost time for breakfast, so if you Seventh Fleet girls would follow Alabama…"

* * *

"Dakota, why were you looking at Colorado like that?" Alabama asked, a tinge of annoyance still in her voice. They led the straggling line from the administrative building to mess, through a pleasant palm-flanked avenue made even more pleasant by the dim light of the dawn.

"Was I?" Dakota blushed, remembering their past. "U-umm, well, we did work together in the past…"

"You did?! How closely? Tell me!"

"H-hey, Alabama, you're scaring me a little, you know that? Look," she sighed, avoiding her sister's intense gaze, "we're just old friends, it's nothing special-"

"Nothing special? Are you sure?" Alabama gripped her arm,

"I promise, Alabama. I promise I'm not as close to her anymore," she answered forcefully, but on the inside she knew that was a lie.

Alabama let go, but Dakota could still sense her distrust. They approached the mess hall, and in moments Wasp raced forward with Saratoga being dragged along, barely holding on to her balance. The other carriers went one way, to the basins and the coat racks, while Colorado and Iowa, talking in low tones in the rear, walked straight into the modest breakfast hall.

Inside, Dakota found the rest of the Seventh Fleet volunteers sitting down all over the place, scattered amongst the early-birds of Luzon. She recognized Saratoga's sister, Ticonderoga sitting next to Wasp and a couple of cruisers she faintly recognized as Baltimore's kin. The destroyers sat in their own rambunctious group off in a corner – Atlanta went over to another corner to her comrades.

Breakfast was plain and simple – sweet, white bread and fried eggs, in plentiful amounts. Everyone ate heartily aside from the colder, more professional battleships and carriers, who ate the bare minimum and plunged straight into low murmurs over their next operations. But today, Dakota could say for certain what they were murmuring about.

Breakfast concluded at different times for everyone. The destroyers, led by Orleck of the Gearing-class, raced out without even bothering to wash their hands, presumably off for the running track for the usual P.E. The cruisers, a more sedate race, ambled out to their offices in preparation for work or gathered in small clumps by the jungle palms on the mown grass.

Dakota went into the restroom before following Alabama out into the enervating humidity, washing her face with the cold water. She was just mopping up with a towel when a little movement made her spin around, her instinct kicking in – but not fast enough for a blur to catch her by the wrist and drag her into a cubicle, all before she could even gather a moment to see who it was.

A step, a slam, and the iron clang of the cubicle lock sliding shut all hit her ears as she was pulled, although not with too much force, into the small confines. Black, fine long hair settled on her cheek as Dakota looked up at her assailant, tensed up, ready to lash out, but it was not the cherubic features of her sister Alabama that greeted her – it was Colorado.

"Colorado, what-" Dakota breathed, looking up at the gentle battleship.

"Hello, Dakota." After five years of being apart South Dakota had almost forgotten the clean-cut, elfin features of her partner. The sultry voice was there, too, like Alabama's, but with none of the malignant edge that Alabama usually had. It was calming, pleasant and even a bit seductive to hear. "Long time, no see."

"Was this necessary? You know, someone could come in at any time-" Having recovered from the initial shock, Dakota pushed herself away from Colorado, leaning back against the cubicle door.

"Oh, I don't think it's really going to be a new thing with the others. Iowa knows full well, and I'm fairly sure plenty of the girls here have some old memories of us." Colorado smiled, a wolfish, cheeky smile that rent Dakota's heart – she blushed, and was helpless as Colorado advanced, getting back into a rather uncomfortably close distance.

"I've missed you, Dakota." She drew nearer, and Dakota stared into those soft, dark amber eyes and saw only joy dancing in her pupils. But for what?

Never mind. Dakota's only thought as the soft caresses came and the top buttons came off was of, strangely enough, poor Alabama. An icy shard of guilt stabbed at her, only to be vaporised by the heat of passion.


	5. Montana

Morning gave way to the noon; and noon carried with it the sultry, humid conditions of the surrounding jungle. Worker and ship-girl alike sweated profusely under the baking sun, even those who had been stationed at Luzon since its founding.

One of Luzon's oldest veterans now walked down the palm-flanked main avenue. She was equal to the mighty Iowa in height, but more sensibly attired – she wore the standard WAVES white uniform compared to the Iowa's unorthodox black tights and loose white coat. She carried herself with a sense of importance, and had every right to do so. For she was named Montana.

Montana is something of an oddity in the US Navy. Planned as a next-generation battleship to succeed the Iowa-class, Montana carried one extra triple turret aft, and was larger and better armoured. But with the rise of the aircraft carrier superseding the role of the battleship as the main projection of naval power, the entire class was suspended.

The story of her revival is as strange as her existence and her age. Building ship-girls is no easy task, and each nation had their own unorthodox methods.

* * *

The coasts of Oregon. A far cry from the bulrushes of the Nile where history was made at concern of a princess and the wailing of an abandoned baby. But it was here that something unusual was discovered that echoed that distant memory.

On a clear, windy day on a beach north of Brookings, two taxidermists walked up the lonely stretch of sand, holding hands and talking in soft murmurs. They were your ubiquitous old-timey couple, an old feller with grey hair and crumpled features and his wife, a rotund doting woman who toughed it out on the high frontiers in her early days.

They'd moved their business from Wyoming, where their trade was met with derision from the locals who knew nothing but the ranch and the farm. Now they settled on Brookings, on a small shop on the main street with a stuffed coyote in the front window.

"Look, Frank, a puffin!" Sure enough, on the grassy verge, the pudgy bird could be seen. It did not see the couple yet. The two watchers stared at it, admiring its red bill. Then the tufted head turned, regarded the observers idly, and then hopped away into the foliage.

"'Tis quite common, Carrie m'dear." Frank said. He turned to the shores and watched the keening birds in flight. The fulmars whirled around in the air while the petrels dive-bombed the water, picking out minnows and squid from the sparkling waters.

"D'you hear somethin'?" Something else was in the air. The old feller's ears picked it up, a sound unlike any bird's cry or the whispers of nature. It sounded like-

Frank turned around sharply, realization dawning on him. Carrie looked at him in alarm as he strode with some anxiety towards the foliage.

He brushed aside some of the taller grass and instantly Carrie was aware of the faint noise. Her concerns were intensified as she heard Frank cry out, and in another instant she was at his side, looking down at the source of the noise. Her jaw dropped.

There, on a bed of trampled grass, lay a baby. Its complexion was smooth but somewhat marked with dirt. The moment Carrie registered it in her mind the baby stopped wailing and looked with a frank curiosity at the couple.

"Oh, Frank, it's, it's…" Carrie was lost for words. Beside her Frank stared down at the little creature, his mind blank with surprise. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his brain there echoed the pastor's gentle but firm words, of the Pharaoh's daughter and the river…

They took the baby with them and immediately forgot all notion of bird-watching for the day. It was late on a Sunday, and they knew the deacon would be in town gathering supplies for the needy in the east.

Driving their rickety Ford down the dirt roads, they found the deacon just outside the grocery store, chatting with a gum-booted fisherman. The mild deacon of the Methodists watched them approach with some haste, and was about to quip a witty remark when Frank blurted out their news.

"You say you found her on the beaches?" The deacon pressed his face against the window of the Ford, examining the baby.

"Well, not exactly on the beaches, Mr Jacobs, but he was sort of in the bushes near the sand, and we heard him crying, and we couldn't leave the poor thing out there, she was surrounded by puffins and foxes and Lord knows what else-"

"The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away," the deacon intoned, with a smile on his face. He turned to the couple and spread his hands. "Do you remember the sermon two Sundays ago? Psalms, I believe? 'Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless; maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed.'" The simple clergyman looked back inside at the fidgeting baby.

"It would not be a stretch for me to say that the Lord has given you and only you this gift; I believe it is He that casts the fatherless upon us, as a true test of our faith."

"What should we do, then, Mr. Jacobs?"

"Raise her as your own daughter, of course!" The deacon said. "Where else has she to go? The Lord gave her to the earth, and the earth gave her to you. On who else's responsibility does it lie?"

It was settled. The elderly couple fell silent, perhaps realizing the enormity of their new-found charge. They made their thanks to the deacon, and drove up the road back to their shop.

For twenty years they raised her as one of their own, with the blessing of the congregation. Word spread like wildfire around town and the locals, almost all of them Christians, offered their assistance in raising the child. Some of the elderly circle that Carrie belonged to dropped by often and chatted gaily, passing the growing toddler amongst them. Old anglers left fresh fish by the door as a pungent gift, more often than not in the night, where it would cause a rude awakening in the morning.

The girl grew up steadily, and all along the top shelf behind the counter a customer might be able to trace her childhood. On the far left you could see the small toddler tentatively taking her first steps on the Persian rug upstairs; the next, a wooden frame depicting her first beach outing; her first day at elementary school; a series of more beach-side montages; and a family photo of the now-infirm couple and the strong, lithe girl.

All throughout the remainder of their lives the old couple felt their spirits lifted by the company of this strange new daughter. She loved the sea as much as they did, and on their visits to the beaches she sometimes stood ankle-deep in the lapping waves and stared out to sea, wondering what lay ahead of that great blue expanse.

The taxidermy business eddied slightly in the currents of reality, and things came to a head on one morning in December, 1941. The girl, now named Miriam in honor of another great figure in the Bible, was walking up the main street with her bowed mother when they saw the crowds clustered around the post office. There was a sprinkling of khaki-uniformed men in the crowd among the town regulars, which was unusual, until they got to the edge of the mass.

War declared. The very statement of that fact didn't stir Miriam nor aged Carrier the slightest, although when they carried the news home to Frank, the old taxidermist snuffed out his pipe, exhaled, and leaned back in his chair with a long, sorrowful sigh. Miriam didn't understand what he meant by that.

She finally understood a year later, in September. The day was cloudy – it had rained the previous days, and Miriam had kept inside, caring for her infirm parents.

Frank was growing wheezy with rheumatism and irritable with constant incontinence, while Carrie, stooped and bent with age, lost all her teeth and could only smile with bared gums at her daughter as she fed her at dinner time and bathed her afterwards.

On this morning, however, shouts and hollers disturbed her sleep as the town's Civil Defense volunteers raced up and down the street in alarm. A low drone could be heard overhead.

Miriam, silently and conscious of the time, threw on a coat and rushed outside into the damp street. She exited just in time to see the dark shadow of a plane swoop past, the buzzing of the radial engine drowning out the excited yells of the volunteers.

The floatplane whizzed inland, and as sense gathered around the stirring town the Civil Defense guards rushed into their automobiles, trying in vain to follow the progress of the plane. Loud cracks rent the air as some of the younger guards opened fire with rifles and shotguns; and as the grunt of the cars faded away to the east even the rattling of a tommy-gun could be heard.

Miriam watched all of this, and shivered slightly in the cold, and went back inside.

Can the buzz of a wayward floatplane really change the course of history? Not nation or international, surely. Locally? Miriam found out the hard way, as she re-entered the small shop with the coyote in the window.

What she saw definitely changed her history, at any rate. Sudden sounds are a strange thing, and for no-one more so than elderly people. Stumbling in their haste to get out of bed, they'd taken a tumble down the stairs. Quite the mess.

Miriam looked at the tangle of limbs dispassionately. She was silent for a long, long time.

Then she sat down, and cried.

* * *

That was eight years ago. With the loss of her adoptive parents Miriam was once again alone in the world. She was not equal to the task of maintaining the household and the shop at the same time. Eventually Mr. Jacobs, now also old and infirm but quite capable of his duties, got Miriam a job as the graveyard caretaker. And even then she lived alone, in a little shack on the yard's seaward corner.

But not one person in Brookings forgot her tale. The fishermen and loggers, both strange but kindly races of men, chipped in to help her plight. The deacon and the congregation helped tremendously by improving her living conditions. But nothing would heal the wound in her heart, left behind by the departure of her parents. Most of the time Miriam stared aimlessly at the sea, neither thinking nor feeling anything.

The radio carried news of graver threats than the old enemy now, and in the tumult of the first Abyssal coastal raids of Alaska, Washington, Oregon and California, she no longer was the main concern of the town. As the United States prepared to put itself on a war footing once more, Miriam's abode became neglected with the energies of the town directed elsewhere. Hers was a sad and lonely existence, and she bore it all with the same silence that had fallen on her ever since that fateful day.

Hardly anyone noticed one day when a black Ford saloon was parked by the church entrance. It was shiny, new, and a chauffeur (presumably) loitered at its side, smoking.

Inside, the new deacon, a fresh-faced man of thirty, met the unassuming man in a black, imposing suit wandering down the aisle. The man in the black suit asked politely for directions to the graveyard. The deacon, having hardly any time to settle into the new town, kindly gave him the directions, thinking perhaps he was a relative.

That was nowhere near the man's intentions. He strode purposefully, with black fedora jammed neatly on his head, towards the neat shack by the graveyard's edge. He knocked on the door thrice, regular, precise knocks.

The door opened. The man was greeted by the sight of Miriam, now in her early twenties, standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a light summer dress, barefoot and looking like she'd just woken up. In fact, judging by the state of the tousled bed-sheets, she probably had.

"Miriam Kellets?" The agent queried, his voice professional. The young woman before her just nodded.

"I'm from the Census Bureau," he continued, the lie running smoothly from his tongue. "We've had some issues regarding your details in the records. Would you mind accompanying me to the church so that we can talk this through with the deacon?"

Miriam nodded again. They walked across the windswept heath and were soon approaching the rear façade of the church. But as they approached the front door, Miriam jumped, for something had pricked her on the arm. She stared at the agent.

The agent tried his best to smile. "Sorry about that, a thorn must've got caught on my sleeve," he lied, rapidly concealing the syringe in his sleeve. "Have you known the new deacon for long?"

But Miriam was no longer walking. She looked down at the tiny prick mark on her arm. She swayed, and the agent caught her deftly by the shoulders.

"Edwards!" he shouted, and in an instant the chauffeur came running from around the side. "Help me take her in."

Together they carried her into the waiting saloon, and deposited her in the back seat. Without any hesitation they both climbed into the front, and drove off.

* * *

Miriam opened her eyes. She felt the cold steel of the metal chair; saw the drab table through dim light from the fluorescent bulb; and experienced fright as the stern man sat before her.

"Miss Kellets," the man before her rumbled, and she shrank back in her chair. "Don't be alarmed – you are bound to feel some ill effects after the sedative has dissipated.

"Who… are you?"

"My name is not important, Miss Kellets. Focus, now, I have a few questions for you."

"Firstly, do you know where we are?"

Miriam shook her head. Fear coursed through her as she took in the sight of the imposing man in the black suit, his voice kind but firm, his eyes a shade of green but as cold as the wintry sea.

"Secondly, do you like the sea?"

This question came as a surprise. Miriam, shocked by its intimacy, only stared at the man.

The stern man gazed back at her unblinkingly. Then he leaned back in his chair.

"Alright. I think we are done here. Guards!"

In seconds a posse of olive-green-drab soldiers trooped into the room and took Miriam by the shoulders. As they led her away, their commander, a short, stocky man dressed in the whites of the Navy, stepped in.

"Well?" the commander asked, "Is she suitable?"

"Now, now, sir, I don't think we should be rushing to conclusions just yet. There's still so much to be done-"

"More to be done? Anything, doc, get it done, just get it done! Half of Defense is clawing at our backs and we can't afford any delays!"

"Why sir, you're quite agitated today. I assure you, once the shrinks are done with her we will proceed as planned."

"So she is suitable, then? We have all we need?"

"That remains to be seen. There are so many to choose from, and the historians are having a field day digging through the files."

"Damned professors and their curiosity…" The commander drew out a cigar case as he sat where Miriam once did. He offered it to the doctor, who declined it with a shake of his head. Soon smoke billowed into the tiny room.

The commander drew on it deeply, and blew out another large cloud. "You know doc, as much as I have misgivings about your program, all I really want is for them to activate as soon as possible."

"Oh? And why is that?" The stern man, the doctor, clasped his hands together.

"We've all got families, somewhere, waiting for our sorry asses to come home. I saw her file, doc. She hasn't got anyone in the world left. Isn't that… what d'you call it… tragic?

"Tragic, but it's the only way, sir. No self-respecting family would give away their offspring for such an outlandish purpose. Nor any beautiful college initiate-"

"Hah! Beautiful? Did you see that last waif, doc? If she were in college, I reckon half the campus would be hankering after her. Deadly and beautiful, doc, that's what we're after."

"Hmmm. I guess you have a point, sir. All of our subjects so far have certainly been fair maidens." The doctor looked at his watch. "Dear me, is that really the time? Excuse me sir, I have an urgent appointment with our head shrink…"

"Please, doc, don't let me get in your way." The commander blew a smoke ring as the doctor left the room.

* * *

Everything passed in a blur for Miriam from then on. Interrogations, medical people examining her top to bottom, and scary military men snorting as she was led past, down an uncountable number of polished grey hallways, halt! Into a sparse cell.

The metal door clanged shut and the bolt was drawn. Suddenly Miriam was aware of the pervading cold, and the full impact of the day's events finally hit her with the force of a cushioned battering-ram.

She collapsed on the tiled floor.

They found her the next day, huddled in a corner; nerves completely shot, both emotion and reason deserted from her. That was, of course, exactly what her captors wanted. They dragged her out easily.

Tap, tap, tap. The guards' boots clacked on the polished floor as they carried her on a litter towards another room, a bare room with a single chair in the center.

The stern man was there again, in his dark suit, accompanied by a greying man in glasses dressed in a long black gown. He motioned to the guards – they deposited her in the chair and left.

The stern man looked at his companion. "Well? What do you think?"

The greying man looked thoughtful and began pacing around Miriam, scrutinizing her from every angle. At last he stopped, coughed, and took off his glasses.

"Hard to say. She's old, for certain. She won't fit in the CV line. Maybe in the BB line." The greying man cleaned his glasses as he spoke. "Most of the current classes have been filled already. I'm not certain where we could put her."

"What about the higher types? There are a few classes still lacking in number."

"All the current slots have been reserved. Besides that it's her file that concerns me."

"Her file?"

"Yes. She's a blank slate. No strong habits or personality, for that matter. Although, that could be remedied post-operation, but right now-"

"We need to focus on getting them out," the stern man finished. "But if there aren't any classes left to put her in, where do you propose?"

The greying man looked his colleague straight in the eye. "I think we have no choice," he said quietly. "I think we have to go one level higher."

"You mean…?"

"What do you know about the Montana-class?"

The stern man's eyes widened. "Are you considering-"

"Yes. Let me have a talk with the director. I'm sure we could come to some understanding. After all, only three people know of the plan at the moment."

"Are you completely sure, Harris?" The stern man whispered, using his friend's Christian name at last. "This is uncharted territory you're poking into here. There's no guarantee-"

"I have given it every consideration. After all, what we're doing here is already so unorthodox."

His friend looked unconvinced, and glanced at the apathetic young woman sitting ramrod-straight in the chair. She did not react at all to his movements. He sighed.

"I guess you're right. Go, tell the director. I'll get the technicians in straight away."

"Thank you, doctor." The man in the black gown left the room.

"Now, Miriam," the stern man said, turning to her. His voice was not unkind. "Please, close your eyes."

Miriam closed her eyes. She was so concentrated in her isolation that she didn't notice the sharp sting on her arm.

* * *

Aeons passed. To Miriam, at any rate. Time blurred as she felt nothing of the outside world. Drugs rampaged in her system, not malevolent ones, but gentle, coaxing presences that caressed her endlessly in her never-ending dream.

One day, in her inside world, a voice spoke to her. A male voice, gentle, pervading, persuasive. Miriam felt herself being drawn towards it, but as she soared towards its source she felt parts of her falling away. Her name was the first to go, the memory and remembrance of it disintegrating with the power of the voice. A new name sprung up, cheerfully supplied by the voice. Montana. What a pretty name. Miriam, now Montana, accepted it gladly.

The name carried more than just an identity. In the very instant she took it up she was suddenly aware of hundreds of details streaming into her mind, like a conquering army. She couldn't decipher them, but her new-found consciousness stored them for her, ready to be used at any time.

As the army of details finished its march into her mind, she was aware, finally, of the sea. It rocked her gently, and the whispers of its spirits seemed to be chanting in unison. They were telling her something. _Wake up._

She did so. And as she did so she was aware of the rocking of the sea. She was aware of its smell, of the salt in the air. She was aware of the light streaming into the space she occupied. It dazzled her with its warm brightness.

She felt the soft blankets on her skin. With a twinge of pain she willed herself to move – and she did so.

Slowly, Montana got up. Her brain registered hundreds of sensations at once as it tried to reboot itself. It searched for the memories that the old host, Miriam, once had. It found nothing. Instead it registered an ocean of emptiness in her memory banks, ready to be filled once more.

She tried to walk, and with a cry, a noise she did not quite hear herself utter, collapsed on the ground, pain shooting up her legs.

A door banged open, and Montana felt herself being cradled by gentle arms. Its owner shouted about help as she held her. Montana was aware of a pair of dark eyes, long blonde hair, and an anxious expression looking down at her.

"Who… are you?" Montana breathed.

"Oh, you're awake! I must find the doctor- wait, there he is!"

The doctor hurried into the room and knelt down beside Montana.

"Trenton, go into my room and get me one of the wheelchairs. The captain will want to talk to her. Go!"

Montana felt the arms retreat as Trenton, or whatever her name was, ran out of the room. The young doctor took her place, and as she slid in and out of lucidity she could feel herself being hoisted into the wheelchair.

They carted her out into the corridor, up a slow lift, and into a chamber of light. Windows against the blue expanse of the sky filtered sunlight into the dark corners of the captain's quarters.

A grizzled man in a uniform of white cloth and gleaming buttons stood before her. Montana, in her summer dress, looked up at him unblinkingly.

"My name is Harold Sumner, captain of this vessel. You have been placed under my charge to train, and I expect you to join in with the program once the doctor has seen you fit to serve. Do you understand?"

Montana nodded, too numb to resist the captain's order. Captain Sumner motioned to the doctor, and they wheeled her back to the lift.

* * *

Fast-forward another two years. The administration, unable to deal with the threat of a full Abyssal offensive and the increasing clamor of those citizens affected by the near-constant raiding, pressed the first units into service. Still in training and lacking in discipline, they nevertheless managed to drive back the small raiding bands and inflict a reasonable amount of casualties.

Montana was among those first spearheads, blasting hot American retribution from four sixteen-inch triples. The girls around her, the very first cruiser and destroyer girls, were awed by the displays. And so was Montana.

U.S. Navy ambivalence about the project vanished overnight. Within a week a flurry of orders poured from Navy command offices in the Washington Naval Yard, but the commanders that received them found none that entailed the transfer of human personnel anywhere. They were movement orders. For the girls. Immediately!

The transfers were prompt and efficient. Within another week most of the girls had reached their outposts, and for the bases that weren't fully built when they got there, the girls themselves got to work on it.

This was especially true of Luzon Naval Base. When Montana and the small contingent of shipgirls landed in the steamy jungle, all they found was a rudimentary series of huts, no radio tower in sight, and no development done around the water's edge.

While the native construction workers didn't seem particularly inclined to speed up their efforts, the Navy contractors had to call in their own teams and the Luzon girls had to get dirt on their socks in order to get the base into operational status. The combined effort, the camaraderie, and the bonds forged gave rise to a closely-knit team, with Montana and Hornet leading the way.

But Montana could never really be comfortable with the new faces that surrounded her. She still remembered her dream world, that part of her life that begot her birth, and of the entity that she had emerged from. And somewhere in the distant realms of her conditioned mind she recalled two elderly persons, looking down on her. Who were they?

As the seasons marched on, however, and as base life and frequent sallies and operations around the Philippines consumed her life, memories slipped away until the formed the fabric of reminiscence, into realms that could be peeked into only out of consciousness. Montana completely forgot her past and lived only for the squadron, combat hardening her and removing any such worry of the past. It was more important to look to the future, to hope, to surviving the daily ordeals.

And now she walked down the main palm-flanked avenue, Montana only looked towards meeting the Seventh Fleet volunteers. She knew vaguely that something was up; but where that led, she couldn't possibly have had a clue. As the most powerful battleship in service with the US Navy, there was naturally very little to worry about.


	6. Changing Fortunes

"Results are in, sir."

"Are they?" the contemptuous Admiral snorted. "Bring them here. Let's see who wants in on this party."

The aide stepped into the office and dumped the stack of papers, a pile nearly a foot tall, on his desk. The Admiral looked up, surprised.

"You mean this is how many applied? Hell!" The Admiral put his face in his hands and shook his head. "When I get back to San Diego, I'm going to have quite the talk with the Secretary," he muttered.

"Sir?" the aide enquired.

"Never mind." The Admiral pulled forward the first sheet of the pile. On that sheet was an index of names and a summary of their performance scores. He digested its contents for a moment. Then he put it down and leaned forward.

"Get the fleet representatives into Conference Room 1 in thirty minutes. I want Alaska from Operations and Oklahoma from Logistics in as well."

"Sir!" The aide hurried out of the room.

"Now," the Admiral said, lifting a hefty sheaf of papers from the pile, "who shall I send along?"

* * *

"Montana! There you are!"

The prim and proper battleship lifted her head from the bush of hibiscus she was admiring. Its scent faded away as she turned to look at the caller.

"Trenton? What are you doing here?" Her voice was calm even with the pleasant surprise of seeing her first friend again.

"Hey, now, Montana, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Trenton said, her tone blended with a tinge of hurt. "We haven't seen each other in, what, five years! Show a little more enthusiasm, you old battlewagon!"

"I would, if I weren't so surprised," Montana honestly replied. "But it's nice to see you again, I guess."

"Gee, thanks, Montana, it's nice to see you again too! I thought I'd never see you again after our stint in Sumner's boat!" The light cruiser laughed, a raucous, hearty sound that was most familiar to Montana. "Say, what's been keeping you looking so proper, ma'am? You don't look a day older than when I first clapped eyes on you!"

Montana blushed at the compliment. "Oh, well, you know, the usual… eating healthy, not too much sun, and plenty of work."

"Is that all? Ha!" Trenton circled quickly around Montana, taking in every curve with great interest. "Hell, you must be right! I guess the only difference between me and you now are what I'm eating and the guns, eh?"

"Trenton, I'm sorry, but what are you doing here?" Montana repeated.

"Oh! Sorry about that, ma'am. I'm on assignment with the Seventh Fleet right now, with the mighty Iowa and all," she bubbled. "Top secret stuff, I don't even know what we're going to do!" She laughed aloud again.

"Top secret, you say?"

"Oh yes, and don't tell anyone! Not another soul, you hear, ma'am? But who am I kidding, half the base probably already knows! Hahaha!"

An aide ran up, a tanned young man with glasses in a clerk's uniform. "Miss Montana, the Admiral requests your presence in Conference Room 1 right away, ma'am," he said, slightly out of breath.

"Okay, be there in five." The aide ran off. Montana turned to Trenton. "I'm sorry, Trenton, it looks like I'll have to go now."

"Aw, don't you worry about it, ma'am, it was a real pleasure seeing you again! I don't see many of my old friends nowadays, you know!" With another loud cackle Trenton skipped away.

"It was a pleasure seeing you again too, Trenton. I'll see you at dinner!" Montana called. She smiled to herself at the memory of the vivacious light cruiser. _The same as ever, _she thought. With that happy thought in mind, she made her way to the administrative building.

She walked into the conditioned hall and made her way through it to the conference room. Aides nodded in acknowledgement to her as she passed, and she smiled back.

The conference room door was ajar as she approached it. She could already hear the hubbub of voices inside as the laid a hand on the door. She pushed it open and stepped in.

Hornet turned to look as she came in. "Ah, Montana, welcome. Have a seat." She waved over to an empty seat.

Montana sat down. Looking around, she recognized all the representatives of the base – there was Hornet, the fierce vice-commander; Enterprise, still all grey and dull, the carrier rep; South Dakota, for battleships; Baltimore and Oakland for cruisers; and little Johnston for destroyers. In the corner she recognized the strict Oklahoma sitting next to the blonde Alaska, presumably from Logistics and Operations.

"Hey, Montana," South Dakota said. "Where were you for the morning conference three days ago? When Iowa and co. arrived?"

"Oh, that?" Montana reddened at the one absence she had been unable to explain away properly. "Well, I was…"

"Just hungry, yes?" South Dakota broadly winked, a knowing smile carved on her face. "We all know your appetites, Montana. No need to be so shy about it, eh?"

Montana's face grew even redder at Dakota casually spouting out her habits. "D-Dakota!" she admonished, feeling helpless as the other battleship's grin grew. "Don't say another word, or else…!"

"Or what?" Dakota cheekily replied.

A sudden thought came to Montana. She dropped her voice to almost a whisper. "Or else I'll tell dear Alabama about you and Colorado!" she threatened.

South Dakota froze. Now the shoe was on the other foot and she, unconsciously, slipped into the defence. She hadn't counted on Montana knowing that – in fact, how did anyone know about _that_?

"How-" she whispered back jerkily, "do you know about that?"

"I have my sources," Montana said enigmatically. "I'd be playing fair if I told you, hmmm? But now I'm not playing fair."

"M-M-Montana…" Dakota breathed, her nerves shot, "swear you won't tell anyone? Please? I'll do a-anything-"

"Anything?" Montana whispered, a gleam coming to her eye.

"No, no! I didn't mean that..." South Dakota looked close to tears, and the gentle Montana, even in this uncharacteristic manner, felt a pang of guilt. "I don't want to hurt dear Alabama… she wouldn't recover, you know? S-she'd hate me…"

Montana drew back. She glanced at the others: Most chatted to each other, but she found Enterprise idly watching their whispered conversation, with the same emotionless expression that she always wore. Dakota looked despairingly up at Montana, and drew back just in time as the Admiral strode into the room.

He carried with him a stack of papers which he dumped onto the long table. Everyone looked at it expectantly as they rose and saluted.

The Admiral waved them down. "Everyone here? Excellent. I probably don't have to tell you what you're all in here for, but I'll run through it anyway."

"The trials have finished, as I am aware all of you know. Some of you observed it, some did not," the Admiral explained, handing out papers to the Hornet and Baltimore, the two closest. "This is a summary of results made by the assessors. What do you all think?"

Montana scanned the list with interest. She found her name near the top, scoring top marks for anti-air accuracy – but her delight was overshadowed by being beaten by both Iowa and South Dakota in gunnery and manoeuvrability.

She looked up from her copy. South Dakota was grinning at her paper; Enterprise was expressionless, again; Hornet seemed satisfied; and everyone else looked rather content. The Admiral looked expectantly at them, and everyone gave their assent by nodding.

The Admiral picked up another piece of paper from the stack. "The orders from Pacific Command say we need to send the fleet on no later than the second of June – two days from now, in fact. Iowa has asked me to nominate replacements for the following members of her fleet: the battleship Colorado, the carrier Ticonderoga, and the cruisers Augusta and Quincy."

South Dakota raised her hand. "Sir, I thought Iowa's fleet was just here for refit and repairs?"

"That's what I thought too. But apparently Admiral Forrestal's sent them our way with transfer papers, so it's fallen on our lot to provide for the final leg." The Admiral sighed, and glanced up at the ceiling with an expression of resignation. "That bastard's got a lot to answer for…"

"Alright." The Admiral swung his gaze back at the girls. "So, any suggestions?"

There it was. In Montana's mind, the offer had come at last – the chance to see the outside world. But even as the happy thought came to her, whispers of doubt arose. Was it really necessary? She was happy here. This was her home. In Montana's mind, however, the spell had already been broken. To her, Luzon was a cage. It was a cage that had trapped her for so long, with chains of contentment. She wanted more. She wanted freedom.

She raised her hand.

The Admiral stared at her for a second, already taken aback by her willingness. "Montana? Do you have a question…?"

"No, sir. I want to volunteer. I want to volunteer for this mission."

Everyone turned to look at her. The Admiral was lost for words as he watched the situation slip away from him. It was true he could simply block her request, but his incisive mind had already seen the long-term impact of such a decision.

Montana looked straight at the Admiral. He stared into her eyes, and saw, for a split second, determination. He saw the cage he had unconsciously built for her. All with the best of intentions. _Shattered. _ He saw the purpose of all his actions to contain the power of his symbol, no, the _base's_ symbol of strength wither away until they lost all meaning. What use was a symbol if that symbol hadn't done anything, _ever_, for the service it represented? _Useless!_

The Admiral couldn't see a way out of it. He responded as neutrally as he could. "I see, Montana. I'll forward your name to Iowa. Any other-"

On the far end of the table, another hand shot up. The Admiral felt another pang of surprise as he recognized Oklahoma, the "base mama" putting herself forward. _No doubt to assist Montana_, he thought to himself, noting their unusual relationship together. He resigned himself to the fact that there was now nothing to stop the girls from putting themselves forward.

"Very well, Oklahoma. I'll have to find someone else to take care of Logistics," the Admiral drily commented. "Now, are there any candidates you want to put forward for the carriers, Hornet?"

"Yes, sir. I'd like to nominate Wasp into the position."

"Wasp, you say? Inspired choice, Hornet. One more into the list. That just leaves a single cruiser slot. Now, who-"

Silently, stealthily, one last hand shot into the air. The Admiral looked up from his list at the collective gasp that followed. His jaw dropped.

Hornet stared at her sister. She was speechless at the sudden movement, and her mind struggled with its implications. Even Montana, whose single act of audacity had completely defeated the Admiral, couldn't help but to stare at the Grey Ghost with awe and astonishment.

"E-Enterprise?" For once, the crusty old Admiral felt completely helpless as he saw the legend of Luzon begin to slip away. _What is she doing!_

The grey carrier nodded. The Admiral had nothing left to say. He mutely nodded in acknowledgement, and with trembling hands, wrote Enterprise's name onto the list. "That's… four. All done. I'll just forward these names onward to Iowa and…" He choked on his words, unable to come to terms with losing three of his most valuable units in one sitting. _All for this confounded mission! _"And you'll have a briefing from her in the next day or so. Dismissed."

They rose in unison, saluted, and began to file out of the room. One girl remained behind, watching the Admiral grapple with his emotions. Little Johnston wandered to the Admiral's side and tugged at his sleeve. He turned to look at her.

"Sir, sir, is Oklahoma and Enterprise and Montana all going to leave?" she asked quietly, her face the picture of innocence.

The Admiral looked into Johnston's wide brown eyes with his brimming ones. He felt shattered by the events that now fell out of his control – to the inexorable tide of fortune, into the hands of fate. He wanted to say everything was alright, everything would be fine. But the harsh face of reality forbade him to.

"Yes, Johnston, I'm afraid so," he said with resignation.

Johnston looked up at the Admiral, and with the infallible eye for emotion she saw the tortured feelings that rampaged inside the Admiral. She saw the silent tear that slid down his face. He was hurt. That much Johnston could see.

She hugged him. "Sir, don't feel so bad," she said, her arms tightening around his torso. "Don't cry…"

The Admiral was surprised, but relaxed under her affectionate gesture. He wrapped his arms around the little destroyer. "Thanks, Johnston," he murmured. He felt the tear dry on his cheek.

* * *

Colorado leaned against the palm tree. The searing heat of the Pacific sun did not abate until the late afternoon and everyone tried their best to keep cool. The battleship that now rested below the green fronds was stripped to her thinnest shirt, sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, and had divested of her stockings.

The large fronds of the tree swayed slightly as the gentlest of breezes wafted past. Colorado shifted slightly under its cool touch, then relaxed.

The crackling of foliage met her ears. She turned and saw South Dakota walking up, parasol in hand. Dakota had opted to keep her uniform on, but with all the coat and most of the shirt buttons loose so as to catch the breeze.

"Oh, Dakota," Colorado said. "There you are. I was just wishing you were right next to me, in my arms…"

Dakota held up a hand, looking slightly abashed. "Please, Colorado, don't say things like that out in the open. I don't know where Alabama is right now and she would raise hell if she saw me here with you-"

"Hahaha! Still worried about your dear Alabama, I see. Well, I can't blame you," Colorado replied breezily. "Still, why don't you come under the shade? Or do you prefer your own?"

Dakota sat down under the fronds, closing and resting her parasol in between her and Colorado. "So, any news of Iowa?" Dakota asked.

"Not a word. That Guam is keeping things close to her chest, and they're still only four days out." Colorado rolled on her side to face Dakota. She yawned and brushed a strand of silky brown hair from her face.

"I'm not surprised. With Big E and Wasp in tow they'll have a much better time of things." Dakota leaned back on her hands. "Still, wouldn't you have preferred it if you still went?"

"What are you talking about? Staying with you is all I wanted once I touched down on this base. Much better than having to heel to Iowa like a lapdog – woof! Woof!" she called.

Dakota laughed. "So is that why the posting papers mentioned you? Did you cosy up to the Admiral to get your way?"

"A professional never reveals her secrets!" Colorado wagged her finger at Dakota, grinning obstinately. "Especially not one as famous as me-"

"Famous?! What are you talking about? If you mean as glam as mighty Iowa, then you've got no chance."

"Aw, Dakota, I'm sure you don't mean that," Colorado said. "Still, though," The slender battleship sighed, and rolled back on her back to stare at the viridian canopy. "I wonder."

"Still having doubts?"

"Yeah. Not just that, though. It sure would have been nice to meet them, you know…"

"Them?"

"The Japs. Sure, I'm happy now, but now that I think about it I don't feel so sure," Colorado let out another great sigh. "I wish you could have come with me, though." She smiled at Dakota, smiling that same smile the last time they were close. Dakota, the memory of it still fresh in her mind, blushed and looked away.

"What are you talking about? If I'd gone, Alabama would've wanted to come too… and you know what she's like on the water, don't you?" Dakota hastily replied, still looking away.

"Perfectly. Why so shy, Dakota?" Colorado rolled again, and propped up her head on her hands. "Is it because of last time? Did I get," She licked her lips slowly, so that Dakota might see it out of the corner of her eye, "...too close?"

"S-stop it, Colorado!" Dakota burst out, but Colorado could see the pink on her cheek, its hue matching the weakness of her bluster.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, really." She inched her way over the closed parasol and tip-toed her fingers up Dakota's thigh. Dakota instinctively swiped it away, but in a flash Colorado's other hand came up and snatched her wrist.

"Come on, Dakota," she purred, her voice sultry in an instant. "Just five minutes, nobody's here, see? Why don't we start with…"

Dakota felt torn – she could feel the seconds fall as the two fingers walked up her bare skin, each tiny footfall sending jolts up her spine. There was mutual desire, oh yes, but unlike most of the others Dakota prided herself on tasteful restraint, a restraint that had kept her clear of any delicious scandal.

But then she thought of the almost gentle, smiling face of Montana and what she had let slip three days ago. _She _knew – but how? How, indeed?

Dakota glanced around, but saw only the clear blue of the waterfront ahead and the dense greenery of the palm glade behind. _Someone _had been watching, or listening, to them before. Could they be here again? Could they be watching?

She looked back down at the fingers inching up her thigh. They were delicate and precise, like a surgeon marking his areas. There was none of Alabama's rough intent or indifference in the touch. She sensed only care, and (dare she believe it, let alone accept it) love.

Dakota felt Colorado's grip on her wrist slip as the fingers reached the hip and began the vertical ascent. Dakota waited, now curious as to where they would go next. But Colorado, always wily, always cunning, grabbed Dakota's tie and pulled her in.

* * *

Dakota was right. There _had _been someone watching. Nearly six hundred yards away, in an eighty-foot watch tower, that someone lay shrouded in the shadows of the outpost box, with a camera set up on a short tripod. That someone grinned as she depressed the camera angle, adjusted the lens, and shot. It captured every movement of the trees below, but more importantly it captured what unfolded below.

Ten minutes later, that someone climbed down the tower ladder, glee coursing through her as she thought of the day's catch. She made her way to her lab, taking care not to walk too quickly or too slowly, so as to not catch the attention of others about on their own business. Her business required delicacy and secrecy.

Reaching her sanctuary, she immediately began the process of developing the catches. The photo reels responded well and within minutes she could see the sharp outlines of the figures. She smiled at the workmanlike quality, and hung them up with a caring hand.

A knock on the door. A precise, rhythmic knock, one that she recognized well. She opened it and found her client, the one who had given her support so freely in the enterprise, standing there. She ushered her in with a smile.

"I'm sure, sir, that you'll appreciate the catch today." She gestured at the hanging photo, and hung another beside it.

The sponsor squinted at the photo in the dim red light. A smile crept up on his face.

"I will take them all," he simply said.

"Same time, same place?"

"As usual."

"Very well, sir."

"You've really quite outdone yourself, Augusta. Though," the Admiral breathed, looking down at the soaking photos, "one wonders if this is merely a way of expressing discontent. Is it so?"

"Of course not, sir." Augusta grinned cheekily at the Admiral. "My services extend to across the entire Pacific. Wherever I will go, I will find business." Her tone was oily and smooth, the tongue and will of an enterprising entity manifested in the slim form of the cruiser.

"You sure didn't waste any time setting up your services here, then!" The Admiral chuckled, and turned to leave. Augusta turned back to the developing photos.

"Oh, and by the way," the Admiral said, glancing back at Augusta. "Since Montana's gone, all your dealings will be with me alone. Understand?"

"Understood, sir." Augusta saluted casually in the red light as the Admiral strode out of the room. She turned back once again to her work, and smiled. Barely five minutes after the Admiral's departure, another knock came on the door. This one was different, a short, rapid, rapping knock.

Augusta kept that smile on her face and opened the door.


	7. Discretion and Valour

"Hey! Keep up, Montana!"

Montana wasn't happy. She hadn't been since they left. How damning it was to have Iowa in command, never mind her credentials and experience, over a mightier battleship than her! Sulking, heart heavy with jealousy, she wallowed in her own self-pity near the rear of the fleet.

This was where she was meant to be, guarding the carriers. But she'd fallen behind so far at times that Iowa had to set the collective speed to a quarter at times, so she could catch up. At first they thought it was just an old engine brewing back into life from dormancy, but when they heard her muttered complaints, they knew what was up.

Iowa especially had no illusions to Montana's chicanery. But orders were orders, and though no matter how many times she'd wanted to secretly ditch Montana and put on all steam for Okinawa, she felt that her time would come soon enough. So she contented herself in calling her out over the fleet radio.

"Hey! You hear me, Montana? If you don't get your sorry ass in line right now, you'll be on first watch duty for the rest of the year! You got that?"

The others giggled, and Montana did what she was told, shuffling back into formation. Aware of the snide, patronizing glances the other girls shot her with, she continued to mope around the rear.

_Stupid Iowa and her stupid ribbons, _she thought as she skated in time to the carriers. _All this time as the Admiral's pet and I don't even get goddamn lieutenancy. _

"He-ey Montana!" Trenton called in from the cruiser squadron, "doncha know? The closer you get to the vanguard, the better-"

"Radio silence will be observed by both destroyer and cruiser squadrons," Enterprise coldly interjected. "Jibes are hardly an emergency."

Despite Big E's intervention, Montana was still smouldering. She was smouldering right as they changed course, heading slightly east in an effort to avoid Formosa. Silence was duly observed all throughout, and Montana tried her best to stay in line, half in an effort to avoid another reprimand and half to avoid being the subject of more jokes.

The fleet was divided up over a wide expanse, comprising of four groups: Iowa, Colorado, and Enterprise led the fleet as the van, Enterprise setting the speed for the entire fleet. Protecting the rest of the fleet at the rear was Wasp and Ticonderoga, guarded in turn by Montana. They formed the rear.

Skirting around the flanks of the rear were the cruiser and destroyer flotillas, led by Atlanta and Ingraham respectively. They scanned the surrounding waters for any would-be Abyssal intruder, constantly rotating around the precious carriers.

The sun reached its apex as the girls slid past the northernmost isle of the Philippines archipelago, and here Iowa halted the fleet to consult the maps. Despite the break given all remained alert, for they now stood on the edge between certain safety and certain danger; they had arrived at the border. Even Montana stood ramrod straight and keenly scanned to horizon. She could hear Iowa conversing with HQ over the radio a little way back.

"1st Expeditionary to Luzon, confirm location four-four-two, seven-one-three, by map code seven-P North."

A pause. "We hear you, 1st Expeditionary." This was a man's voice, deep and confident – the harbour master of Luzon, who also oversaw the passages throughout the Philippines. No doubt the Admiral stood behind him, tracking their progress with eager eyes. "Location confirmed. Suggest absolute bearing of zero-two-seven for optimal route to destination."

"Bearing noted." Beside Iowa Oklahoma marked the map and adjusted the compass. "Bearing set and locked. Departing from home waters."

"Godspeed, Iowa!"

_And there we have it, _Montana drily thought to herself, _out of Luzon at last. Out of the cage._

Orders were rapped out over the radio, and the girls steamed north. Ahead lay an infinite expanse of water, with no land in sight – a far cry from her cloistered days in the archipelago. As if nature had also expected her the wind blew on their backs, launching them into the great unknown.

Most of the other girls had not yet been outside the confines of the archipelago, and they too relished the freedom of the open seas. Only some of the older girls had been out in open ocean while transferring from one base to another. But this… this was something else altogether.

"Hope those clouds don't open up," Wasp remarked. She gestured at the gathering storm clouds on the horizon.

Iowa, however, felt uneasy about the darkness looming on the horizon. It was odd, seeing that smudge of black in the far distance, while all above the sky remained unblemished, without a single wisp of cloud. Her uneasiness belied instinct – and within seconds she had Enterprise fire off a reconnaissance patrol.

The buzz of the Hellcats filled their ears as the aircraft lifted their wings skyward, and receded into a mild drone as they disappeared into the pale blue.

Montana watched the recon patrol go out. She waited as expectantly as everyone else on Iowa, who continued to look out at the black horizon, deep in thought.

"Enterprise, what's our deviation from Formosa?" she asked.

The grey carrier looked at her map, secured underneath her wrist band. "Precisely one hundred and twenty miles distant, bearing of two-seven-two."

"Then what's that smudge doing to our immediate north, then…?" Iowa wondered aloud.

Enterprise clasped one hand on her radio headset. "Interference," she murmured. "Plenty of radio signals around them… Contact."

Iowa whirled around, looking urgently at the carrier. "Contact?"

"Recon reporting in," Enterprise calmly replied. "Large Abyssal formation ahead-"

"God almighty!"

"Exact numbers unknown," Enterprise continued, as relentlessly as the foe they now faced. "Bearing dead ahead… to us."

"Emergency!" Iowa shouted down her mike. "Enemy fleet ahead, battle stations! Defensive positions!"

All around them the girls sheared off into their practised positions – the flotillas distanced themselves while the carriers moved towards the rear. Iowa, Oklahoma and Montana glided forward as the new van. Every eye was set forward, tense and ready, for the onslaught.

The carriers loosed their fighter squadrons into the air, a beehive of gull-winged Corsairs and shark-like Hellcats soon circling over the girls.

Enterprise remained glued to the radio, and counted down the moments to battle. "Enemy closing in forty thousand yards… thirty-eight thousand yards…"

The battle, however, did not wait for the thunder of the big guns. In seconds the very air above them was rent with the swirling battle of fighters and bombers, the mass of air trails making all plain to see the savagery of air combat.

"Fleet will prepare for surface contact with major portion of enemy force!" Iowa commanded, readying her own guns as dark shapes approached over the horizon.

"Thirty thousand… Enemy in range!" Enterprise called.

"Fire!" Iowa yelled.

Shot after shot sang through the smoky battlefield as both sides tangled with each other. The pop and burst of the low-calibres was interspersed with the violent roar of the battleships. Pistons hissed as torpedoes were launched, and the heavy splashes of fifteen-inch shells mixed with detonations.

Iowa stood in the thick of it all. Beside her, in the dense smoke, she could register the dim form of Montana blasting away at the swarming masses that approached. She could hear the endless roars of guns, the ceaseless chatter of machine guns all around her.

"There's too many of them!" Trenton shouted, panicking, through the radio. "They'll slaughter us! They'll-"

"Shut up, Trenton!" Iowa roared back.

But the cruiser's words were true - no matter how many shadowy blobs she and the rest shot at and sunk, there seemed to be no end to them. The black, vicious Abyssal destroyers leapt from the smoke time and time again, and the jagged shells of their cruisers rained ceaselessly upon them. Even now Iowa could hear the rumble and heavy splash of battleship shells plunging into the sea near them.

"Situational report, Enterprise," she ordered. Just behind her steel rang on brass as nine shells slid into their breeches. Turret motors whined as she unconsciously guided them into position.

"No losses sustained, exact number of enemy casualties unknown. Strength of opposition unknown."

The worst kind of intelligence, Iowa recalled. She remembered the strategy books she had read at the base library. What was it that Chinese theorist had said?

"Group leaders, check in, report status."

"Atlanta reporting, taking heavy straddling fire, no serious wounds sustained." The cruiser's voice was steady, but with gritted teeth.

"Ingraham reporting, skirmishing approaching flanks!"

"Enterprise reporting. Major losses in aircraft, but fighter cover is holding. No unit damage."

Iowa's main guns fired again, the violent force of the blast momentarily blowing a hole through the dense smoke. She could see the black tide that stretched as far as the eye could see. There was no point standing their ground.

"All units, prepare to retreat!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Montana looked across the smoke at Iowa, impassive at the gathering enemy before them. A little further away she could dimly make out the shadowy form of Oklahoma, still firing her guns. "We can take them, Iowa!" she shouted over the ever-increasing din.

"Do as you're ordered, Montana!"

"But-"

"Do you hear me, Montana? We can't win this!" Iowa shouted. "We stay here, we die for nothing! All units, retreat! Retreat, goddamn it! Ingraham, give us some covering smoke!"

* * *

"We're losing squadrons, Iowa," Saratoga's voice came quietly through the radio as they sped southwards, Ingraham and her speedy comrades covering their retreat.

"It can't be help, Saratoga," Iowa replied. "We've got to hold on until we can get to Luzon and patch up. We can't fight those bastards until we get-"

"Enemy fleet, four o'clock!"

"Goddamn it," Iowa repeated under her breath. "Composition?" she called over the radio.

"Looks like destroyers and a few light cruisers… probably the vanguard."

"We can take them, at least," Iowa muttered. "Fleet will continue on present course and fire suppression barrages."

Heads and guns turned west and thundered away at the approaching Abyssals. Even before the last shell had splashed down the Abyssals turned tail and ran. Or did they?

"I don't like this, Iowa, I don't like this at all," Oklahoma commented. "They're not attacking seriously, it's like they're-"

"Toying with us," Montana completed. Overhead their fighters still circled over them, but there were no Abyssal aircraft to be seen for miles around in the great blue above. The horizon remained dark, to be sure, but it never seemed to grow. It seemed at best a lull.

But lulls were not to Iowa's, or even Oklahoma's liking. The best course was to smash through and make a beeline straight for their destination, but how could it be done, with such a formidable opponent waiting across their very line of advance?

"Enterprise, do we have exact numbers on the enemy fleet?" Iowa asked.

"Reconnaissance indicates at least fifty enemy vessels of varying classifications," Enterprise, unruffled as ever, replied.

"Twelve against fifty plus," Wasp solemnly said. "Is that possible, even with our firepower and tactics?"

"It's not," Oklahoma said. "Even if it was fifty cruisers we'd be sunk. There'd be more than sixty, by my reckoning…"

Iowa listened to the increasing despair in their voices, and felt it inside her as well. It was like an iron vice, slowly but surely crushing her resolve from within. What were they to do in such insurmountable odds? What could they possibly do?

As if fate wanted to mock them, Saratoga came over the channel with bad news. Reinforcements wouldn't be able to deploy in at least four days – the exact number of days it would take for the Abyssal battle fleet to overrun their position and possibly all the way to Luzon.

It all seemed quite hopeless, even if they did retreat and manage to get to Luzon. Fight and die, or cut and run? Either way was suicidal, but Iowa dared not tell the others. Perhaps they would arrive that conclusion themselves soon, but now was not the time to shatter the fleet's morale.

They landed on a small isolated island right in their path just as the sun began to set over the darkened horizon.

Iowa wasted no time holding a council of war with Enterprise, Oklahoma, Montana, Saratoga, and Atlanta. They sat beneath the cooling palm fronds on the rich black soil, while the rest settled themselves on the edge of the beach, worn and dispirited.

"There is no other course," Saratoga argued. "We must return to Luzon and prepare for an invasion of the Philippines."

"While the Abyssals gather more forces than we have shells for?" Oklahoma countered. "I say we hold here and wait for reinforcements-"

"And when they arrive, we'll all be dead!" Saratoga cried. "And we will have failed our mission!"

"We don't have much time," Iowa added. "We're due in Okinawa in two weeks, and we can't afford a delay like this."

"We do not have enough supplies, either, if we fight this battle." Enterprise quietly interjected. "Even if we win, we will have exhausted ourselves and the Abyssals will destroy us from Formosa."

Montana remained silent.

"But say we avoid Formosa altogether-" Atlanta began.

"Two weeks!"

"And what if they sweep south to Luzon?"

"Oklahoma is right. We cannot abandon the girls at Luzon. But if that's so…"

Montana remained silent.

"There's nothing for it," Iowa growled. "We'll have to retreat. God, I hate it when it's like this…"

"Montana? Is something the matter?" Atlanta asked.

"We must fight here," Montana murmured.

"What?" Everyone turned to face her.

"We've got to fight here. Turn and run? When were we girls ever like this?"

"Montana, I think you've been in retirement for too long," Iowa remarked. "There is no other way, get it? We fight here, we sink and Luzon gets overrun. We go back, we-"

"We admit defeat." Montana interrupted. "But defeat is a luxury we don't have. What will they say when two of America's finest ships are defeated by an Abyssal rabble? They'll begin to doubt, and when they begin to doubt themselves…"

"But four days is too much." Saratoga said. "We don't have enough aircraft, enough fuel, or enough ammunition for a protracted battle like this."

"What about Johnston?" Montana said, her voice rising into confidence. "They knew the danger, yet they gave their lives here, in these very seas, so that others might live. Have we come so low? Is there no valour left in our hearts?"

The others went silent at that. Even Iowa, who was nominally the strongest, contemplated these words.

Montana looked all around at the brooding faces of her compatriots. None looked with antagonism at her, but she knew that they were all thinking hard.

"So, it's as you say," Iowa finally said. "Montana is completely right."

"But, Iowa…" Saratoga glanced at the battleship, a pleading look in her eyes. "This is crazy. Twelve against an armada out there, and with no reinforcements-"

"Then we will just have to fight them with everything we've got," Montana said, with not a trace of fear in her voice. "I'm not afraid of them. Are you, Saratoga?"

"Me! Afraid! Never!"

"Then it's settled," Iowa declared. "We will fight. And we'll give them hell!"

* * *

The fleet lay arrayed out along the broadest possible front, protecting the main channel to the bays of Manila.

Atlanta, Trenton, Montpelier, the cruisers, mixed with the destroyers Ingraham, Jouett and Hawkins as the screen, keeping a sharp eye out for the approaching enemy fleet. Wasp's Hellcats circled overhead.

Iowa stood in the second group, flanked by Montana and Oklahoma. They in turn were protected by the wings of Enterprise's Hellcat fighters and Saratoga's Corsairs. And several kilometres behind the battleships the carriers stood, their bombers primed and ready.

"Fleet is in position, Iowa."

"Good. Keep us posted about the enemy fleet."

Sure enough, the billowing black smoke of the Abyssal fleet could be seen filling up the approaches. The wolves and sharks of the destroyers led the way, their ugly snouts cutting through the brilliant ocean. The humanoid cruisers could be seen shepherding their vicious charges, guns laid.

Atlanta sighted them racing down on them, and the sight chilled her a little. But her resolve held as she readied her own guns, and was heartened a little as she heard her friends do the same beside her.

Iowa's cool voice came over the radio. "Cruisers and destroyers will fire and fall back on my command."

"Yes ma'am!"

The Abyssals approached into gun range. "Fire!" Atlanta shouted, firing a blazing salvo. The others cried out their war cries and opened fire on the writhing black horde that, while bruised by the violent barrage, continued relentlessly forward.

"Fall back!" Atlanta peeled off with her companions while Ingraham, leading the destroyers, did the same. The black Abyssal sharks surged forward, only to be met by a blisteringly powerful barrage of shells. Even straddles shed blood as the tremendous impacts of the battleship shells plunged into their midst.

"Atlanta, get your sorry ass back behind us and mark your targets. We've only dented their spearhead, and it won't be long until they bring up their battleships. Enterprise, where are those bombers?"

"Bombers out," came the icy reply.

Sure enough, while Corsairs and Hellcats faced off against their Abyssal counterparts high above, Helldiver and Dauntless bombers came screaming out of the sky. A rain of bombs fell on the Abyssals steaming ahead, wreaking havoc on their formation and forcing some of the less hardy to scatter.

"Now, girls! Now is our time!" Iowa shouted. A cheer was raised as Iowa, Montana and Oklahoma fired a simultaneous barrage. Ingraham and her friends charged forward and fired torpedoes; Atlanta's five-inchers fired more furiously than ever; and all the while the carriers never ceased to send out their fighters and bombers, never drawing breath to rest. They were fighting for their lives now.

The Abyssal destroyers, as if given a signal, wheeled about and headed back into their lines, bruised and battered by the American onslaught. But what emerged next from the black and grey ranks sent a chill down every girl's spine.

Abyssal battleships. Tall, sleek, almost human, but scarred and mutated beyond all recognition. Bristling with the usual weaponry.

"Hold your ground!" Iowa called. "Fleet will continue with general attack!"

With fear in their hearts and crumbling resolve the girls dumbly obeyed, and as the Abyssal battleships, which by themselves outnumbered the entire American fleet, advanced they threw everything at them – shells, bombs, torpedoes, and in their desperation the cruisers even pointed their anti-aircraft guns at them.

The Abyssal battleships plodded on, fighting their fire with their own fire. Their fire, of course, being great fifteen-inch shells of their own, shells that kicked up a wake comparable to Iowa's. These shells began plunging into the midst of the loose American formation.

"Taking fire! Jouett wounded!" Ingraham called over the radio.

"How bad is it?" Iowa asked frantically.

"Not too bad, ma'am, but if we don't get out of here we'll go under-"

"Atlanta here! Taking some serious fire here, Montpelier looks like she's losing it-"

The clamour of her comrades was enough for Iowa. Despite Montana's newfound grit and Oklahoma's impassiveness, Iowa prepared to give the order to retreat again.

But something caught her eye. A glimmer of hope?

No, but it was a glimmer nonetheless. Far off to the periphery, she could see the faint columns of white smoke… ships cruising on the horizon. But the glimmer was the strange thing. The sun was shining off something. Something polished…


	8. Sisters in Arms

"Who _are _they?" Montana shouted, over the din of furious combat. She, too, had noticed the glimmer of steel on the horizon.

"I don't know, but if they're gonna fight, I wish they'd hurry up! Damn you!" Iowa yelled, as a shell glanced off her port escutcheon. In reply Iowa blasted a volley of shells at the offending Abyssal cruiser, which took a direct hit and promptly fell back.

"Carrier Force to Battle Force, reporting arrival of friendly aircraft in the zone," Enterprise calmly reported.

"Friendlies? Where did they come from?" Atlanta wondered aloud.

"Does it matter?!" Trenton yelled back. "It's darned lucky they're even here!"

Iowa's voice came over their headsets as they continued to blaze away at the writhing Abyssal tide. "Iowa to all units, prepare to advance into counterattack on their right flank! We're going to try and link up with our allies!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Slowly, the fleet turned away from the left in preparation for a springing counterattack, but as it turned out, it wasn't needed. Not even two minutes since Iowa's last order there came a almighty roar from the Abyssals' portside, and above the screaming of shells and the endless drone of aircraft, steel clashed on steel as their new allies tore into the flank of the Abyssal fleet.

"Iowa to all units, forward! Give 'em hell! Hoo-rah!" Iowa shouted, and the entire American fleet save their carriers leapt into the fray, guns roaring thunder on the beleaguered Abyssals. The latter, finding themselves flanked, began to give way.

Montana edged closer in the fray, trying to discern who their unlikely reinforcements were. Groping through the smoke-welter of battle and directing the full weight of her firepower onto the enemy, she made her way to the extreme right of the fleet. Through the haze of smoke she could finally make out the silhouettes of the other fleet.

"Hey!" Montana shouted, waving a hand in the air, "Identify yourselves!"

Their guns roared again as if they did not hear Montana, but at that moment a light breeze blew away some of the smoke. With the smoke removed Montana could see the navy-blue uniforms, the glittering gold braid and the shiny peaks on their caps. Disbelief mingled with amazement as Montana watched the serene girls loading, laying, and firing without pause.

A deep-blue plane flew past Montana and finally the familiar strangers turned and noticed Montana. A few waved at her, but their main task continued unabated.

A cool, unruffled voice came over her radio. "Hallo, friend. Mind edging back into your line? We've got a charge coming up down the line that we'll need quite a bit of space for…"

A charge? Just as Montana began to ponder over the meaning of the term (while still blasting away at the Abyssals), Saratoga spoke on the radio. "Vicky, is that you?"

"Dear old Sister Sara! How the devil-" The delighted British carrier was cut short as the stern voice of Ark Royal interrupted.

"It's hardly the time for pleasantries, Victorious," Ark admonished. "Let's wrap up here and then exchange the greetings, shall we?"

"Agreed." This time Iowa interjected. "All units, concentrate fire on Abyssal targets! Shift left and prepare to exchange fire!"

"Warspite to Ark, the US ships are shifting west to cover the other flank. Shall we initiate Battle Formation F?"

"Not yet." Ark surveyed the battlefield on her VFD, a magnetized map slide bolted on to her deck shield. She nudged the coloured magnets around on the small board, marking the positions of the fleets as the battle raged on. "Yellow section, fall back and take up echelon-rear-starboard positions off Blue section! Red section, maintain suppressive fire, prepare to load smoke canister on my command!"

"Roger!" The destroyers slid back into the safety of the cruiser's line as the light and heavy cruisers pounded away at the writhing Abyssal hordes, six-inchers barking away relentlessly at the relentless foe. Off to port rim the three battleships of Red section slotted in the next barrage of shells, adjusting their sights at the same time.

"Fire!"

Smoke launchers on Warspite, Lion and King George V popped and screeched as their charges plunged straight for the first rank of the Abyssal fleet. The smoke shells burst just above the waterline and the Abyssal Fleet was instantly engulfed in the white, lingering smoke.

"Warspite, now!" Ark cried.

"Red section, blue section, cease fire!" Warspite commanded, shouting over the din of the battle as Ark and Victorious' planes zoomed overhead. "Draw swords!"

Over on Iowa's end, they all heard it – the unmistakeable, long ringing sound of steel being drawn out of scabbards. It was a chilling sound, something they'd never heard before in the heat of battle. But it reassured them to know it was their allies doing it.

With their officer's swords (Warspite and Lion wielding older but no less effective 'Nelson' swords) at the salute and gleaming dimly in the pale sunlight, the battleships and cruisers joined and dressed their lines. Wasp and Saratoga could only observe in disbelief and amazement as the British girls took the opportunity of the smoke to set up their formation. The camera guns on their overhead fighter planes blazed away at the sight.

Behind them the destroyers honed their dirks on the cooling barrels of their four-inchers, relishing the fight ahead. Warspite quickly craned her neck left and right, checking the ranks. Then she issued the order that made the every American girl's jaws drop.

"Squadrrron! For-ward march!" Warspite shouted.

One could have imagined a military band playing as the line stepped forward in unison, to the beat of thundering cannon and screaming aircraft. The swords did not quiver as the girls sailed on undaunted. They cruised straight into the heart of the smoke cloud, and as they disappeared into the smoke it seemed as though they were lost with all hands.

Inside the smoke cloud itself, though, the British girls had no problem identifying their targets, refraining from firing at all so that they could catch the bewildered Abyssals by surprise.

But the American girls, recovering from their astonishment, resumed the battle with ever-increasing vigour. In their eagerness their shots began landing in the smoke cloud, and Iowa, not understanding the importance of the artificially-created smoke, did not warn her colleagues. The shells plunged into the smoke unabated.

The British girls, their line still perfect, was now under fire from their allies. But did this concern them? No – they had done this too many times to let a bit of friendly fire disturb it. For the trapped Abyssals in the smoke cloud, the flash of steel from their swords would be the last thing they ever saw.

A whistle rang out, blown from the lips of King George V, signalling the general assault. With a rising roar the battleships and cruisers closed in on their picked targets, hacking them down with one precise slash or multiple in the case of the less surprised. The destroyers, smelling blood, darted forward and stabbed furiously at the second-rankers, who were just as surprised to see a trio of British destroyer girls bear down on them with knives in their hands.

Within minutes, the British girls emerged unscathed from the smoke, to the shock of the waiting Abyssals. There was a heavy stench of Abyssal blood in the air, suffused with the overpowering smell of gunpowder. Their swords and knives were drenched with the brackish, black blood of the Abyssals they had just felled. There were no cries from the stricken Abyssals – just silence.

That silence was shattered as the laid guns of the British Pacific Fleet thundered away in an instant, firing literally point-blank straight into the rest of the Abyssals. The vicious destroyers closed in from the flank, only for Cheviot and company to outflank them back and plant their dirks squarely into their brutish heads.

Iowa, Montana, and the rest of the American girls looked on in terror and amazement even as they fought their own battle. In less time than it had taken for them to deploy at the very beginning the British Second Pacific Fleet had virtually wiped out one-third of the entire Abyssal force.

But there were still the other two-thirds that still lay waiting for them interspersed in six-unit squadrons. They had fought valiantly, but now the true test awaited them – the head-to-head battle with the Abyssals that had silently observed all of this.

While the American girls cleared up on their side, the British girls paused to dress ranks again, with the same formation as they had entering the battle. The Americans lined up as well – but not in the straight ranks of their allies. They stuck to their traditional strategic groupings.

The carriers, however, felt no need to segregate themselves. Ark and Victorious cruised around to where Enterprise and her group were, but true to their own strictures they made no attempt to communicate; only waving to each other as they slid into their formations.

"Prepare to launch fresh wave of fighters! On my mark, fire!"

"Alright, girls, you know the drill, let's up and at them! Let's go!"

Two beehives of fighters were launched into the air, just as the battered planes of the first strike force waffled back to their havens. They were received with loving hands and then tucked away to rest.

At the front lines, the two combat commanders peered out at the Abyssal fleets arrayed out before them. While Warspite wiped the blood off her sword with a white towel, Iowa plotted the advance, laying down her orders for her group leaders. Then she linked up with her British counterpart.

"Warspite? Are you apprised of the battle plan?" Iowa asked.

"What battle plan?" Warspite replied blithely.

"What is YOUR plan, then? Shall we march as you do, then? It was effective, sure, but this bunch is ready for us – you won't be able to flank them this time. I reckon-"

Warspite interrupted her. "It would be foolish to try the same tactics again, Iowa. We don't have any plans to engage in a melee," she continued, sheathing her sword and readjusting her bun. "We will decide this on firepower and tactics."

"Firepower…? I'm sorry, Warspite, but have you seen the armada before us? They outnumber us nearly three-to-one! No amount of firepower on our end is going to overcome this-"

"You're forgetting the second part of our plan, Iowa," Warspite reminded her. "What you just saw is only a small facet of our battle doctrine. With the right tactics we will overcome any obstacle in our path. We'll do whatever it takes to keep on fighting."

"Yes, well, I guess that's right…" Iowa blushed, embarrassed by her own bluster. Warspite did not seem to notice. "Well, then, can you tell us what you're planning for this battle? I don't want us clashing when we're in the middle of it all."

"I believe we do have a plan," Warspite replied with confidence. "We have ten, you have nine – even deployment. We'll throw out a few raiding sorties, try for a baiting strategy. Then we'll swoop in and pick them off one by one."

"Is that it? Seems… simple." Iowa stared out at the silent Abyssal lines. "Are you sure they'll fall for this?"

"If they don't, we have other plans. I'll tell you them when we get to that point. For now, this will do for starters." Warspite turned to her comrades. "Yellow section, formation C, fast strike! Blue section, formation D, turning salvo!"

"Roger!" The destroyers advanced, surging quickly into full steam, while the cruisers advanced slowly under the guidance of Berwick, who calculated the collective range as they cruised forward.

Cheviot, Childers and Charity shot their torpedoes and fired a few shots, staying just long enough to seem like threats. All the while Berwick led the cruisers forward cautiously, sounding off the final few feet until they hit their maximum effective range. Then-

Guns thundered on the far horizon, and before Warspite could rap out another order the salvo landed directly on the cruiser squadron.

"Damn! They've got our range! Yellow section, retreat! Blue section, retreat!" Even with the haste of the order, the cruisers managed to fire their salvoes and then turn away, while Yellow section charged back into their starting lines.

"Well, Warspite, what now?" Iowa wryly asked.

"No time for another smoke barrage, they'll be expecting that… How about you show us how you'd go about this, Iowa?" Warspite asked, without any hint of sarcasm.

"Sure thing," Iowa answered, relishing at the chance to show the British how it was really done. "Girls, let's move out!"

"Roger!" With that single command the girls of Luzon sprang into action. Iowa, Montana and Oklahoma fired salvo after salvo of high explosive at the leading ranks of the Abyssals while the destroyers and cruisers closed in on the port flank, pouring on a merciless rain of fire. Warspite and the other British girls looked on with interest as the American girls tore through the first fleet in their path, and then without hesitation charged forward to annihilate the next.

Warspite drily looked on, all the while scanning the rest of the Abyssal line for a sign. A parting – a very small one, though – opened up in the centre as Abyssal squadrons peeled away from the front line to encircle the rampaging Americans.

Lifting up her hand, the British fleet puffed forward as one, and while their boilers worked themselves up they slowly slid into formation – a long needle, pointed straight at the breach. Lion led the attack, Georgie following with the cruisers in line behind her, while Warspite hung back relaying commands.

"Fire!" Warpsite shouted. The guns of the British girls blasted left and right and forced the Abyssals to fall back. That was all Warspite needed.

"Squadron, charge!" An ululating shout arose as Lion surged forward, and their leisurely march became a headlong rush as they scattered no less than three Abyssal fleets, breaking entire flotillas in their masterful advance. The rest of the Abyssal fleet, broken and in disarray began to waver while the British girls fought towards their American allies.

"Squadron, formation E! Swing to starboard once we link up!"

Iowa could scarcely believe her eyes as the Abyssals surrounding them were blasted aside and the pale Lion came barrelling into their midst. But she didn't let her surprise get in the way of what needed to be done.

"Girls, let's break out! Weapons hot! Let's go!" Iowa shouted.

"Yes ma'am! Trident formation!" Abyssal ships were blown to bits as the American ships, brimming with newfound vigour, blasted a hole in the Abyssal lines. On their starboard side Lion cut through the panicked Abyssals and enlarged the breach.

"Charity, Cheviot, engage the smoke launchers!" Warspite ordered.

A great stream of white smoke billowed from the destroyers as the two fleets put on full steam and sailed out of the battlefield, leaving the Abyssals behind them broken and full of woe.

* * *

"Get me a bearing for Okinawa, Oklahoma. Atlanta, damage report on your sections. Saratoga, I want a constant sweep around over ten miles, frequency seven..."

"Yellow section will form our rear, Blue section will take point and lead. Green section will provide continuous support port, astern and starboard. Scouts on long patrol from east to west..."

The two fleets cruised north with all haste, all engines working furiously through the afternoon and the evening. Their vigil remained unbroken even as the unnatural darkness on the horizons receded.

"I wonder how they knew," Trenton wondered aloud, as they cleared the boundary line of Formosa. Iowa, Warspite, Oklahoma and Georgie all had their binoculars out and were scanning the west, while blue planes whizzed overhead endlessly.

"How they knew what, Trenton?" Montpelier asked.

"That Abyssal fleet was larger than anythin' we've faced so far," Trenton mused. "It was like they knew we were coming or something like that…"

"Aw, hell, Trenton, you gonna play philosopher again? We nearly got our asses beat and you gonna wonder why?

"Hey, at least we lived, huh? But damn, did you see those Brits in line? Like, wow…"

"No sign of Abyssal response, ma'am," Enterprise reported over the radio. "All quadrants clear of bandits on all levels. No signatures in cloud cover."

Iowa lowered her binoculars. "Oklahoma, set bearing for direct course to objective. It's nothing but a clear line ahead, girls, let's move out!"

"Hallo, Green section leader reporting. No bandits in sight across western quadrant. No hostile ships approaching from rear."

"Roger that, Green leader. Blue leader, take vanguard post and keep an eye out. Yellow section will guard flanks." Warspite lowered her binoculars and looked across at Georgie, who directed the destroyers into their assigned positions.

"We sure came at the right time," Lion remarked. "Curious, isn't it? After all this time…"

"It's nothing special." Georgie said brusquely. "We've gone to service in the United States before, with battles more heavy and brutal than this."

"Oh, I've read all about it. Those fights were quite-"

"And what would you know about fightin', proud Lion?" Perth interjected over the radio, with a disgusted tone. "Readin'! Empty words about blood and tears and death, and you think you know it all?

"I- " Lion was about to retaliate but Warspite turned and stared at her sternly. Lion kept her mouth shut.

The combined fleet sailed on. Ships on both sides glanced at each other with wonder and curiosity. The American girls gazed at the clean-cut uniforms and gleaming buttons of the British uniforms, while the British girls looked on the freedom of dress of the Americans with amusement and distaste in equal measure.

Warspite, however, found no qualms with communicating with her American counterpart.

"Bearing is 028 relative… Do you copy, Iowa?"

"Bearing noted. Course is steady. Thank you, Warspite."

"Thanks? For what?"

"For coming to our aid. Without your assistance, I was afraid we might have…" Iowa's voice trailed off.

"There's no need to thank us. We're allies, aren't we?"

"I- well, yes, I suppose… " Iowa's voice trailed away.

"Now, for the objective." Warspite continued, not noticing Iowa's discomfiture. "I understand that you have identical orders to ours?"

* * *

_Author's notes:_

_This is likely the last chapter in this particular story arc. From here on in the adventures of the American girls will be tied in with the Japanese section, _Okinawa Base. _For the British girls there is still one chapter for certain remaining, concerning their movements from New Zealand. _

_The Italian arc will be completed after the conclusion of the British line, in a succession of shorter episodes (hint: Colombo, Singapore, Indochina, Formosa II). The French arc will follow. The Soviets I am holding off on because of the disgusting attitude of the very people ('Russian' readers) who should be grateful for the recognition of their nation's navy (who by all accounts had a historically atrocious record) I am giving them. More on this issue can be found in the relevant story arc (_Red Star, Grey Ocean).


End file.
